


What Her Mother Taught Her

by Evenly_Baked_Avatar



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Multi, Reborn has a daughter fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-01 04:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17237423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenly_Baked_Avatar/pseuds/Evenly_Baked_Avatar
Summary: She had her father's eyes and her mother's beauty; a dangerous combination. Her mother's lessons, even more so, grooming her to survive, even without her teacher, losing her mother to the dangerous life she had grown too familiar with. She was her father's daughter after all. That was inevitable.





	1. Her Mother Taught Her to Love

**Author's Note:**

> If this story looks familiar, it started out on fanfiction.net (under the same username), but I decided to put it on here as well. If you're interested, you can find fan art, character references and such on my tumblr, she-has-her-fathers-eyes. Hope you enjoy!

**Lesson 1:**

**Her Mother Taught Her to Love**

* * *

She never liked her name, but her mother taught her to love it.  _Ausiliatrice_. It rolled off the child's tongue awkwardly, giving her difficulty to say her own name. Much too long, the child decided. Much too difficult for someone her age to pronounce. She envied the way her mother said it; beautifully, as it should be.

_Ausiliatrice_.

"It was my grandmother's," the woman explained, tilting her head up to blow the smoke away from the child. Her daughter sat in her lap, leaning back on her mother's breasts, enjoying the rhythmic movement and the sound of a hidden heartbeat. This was home, she decided at the tender age of two. Sitting in her mother's lap, pressed against her heartbeat. _Home_. An unfamiliar concept to both. An unknown concept to the girl. It had only appeared in the ratted books her mother sometimes brought her. This apartment, dingy and rotting with age, was no home to Ausiliatrice. But her mother's arms, rocking her gently with her body as they both gazed out the open window and into the full moon, blissfully ignoring the sounds of streets below them, this was warmth to the girl. This was home.

Tonight was a lights-out night, but a good day. A strange combination. But, a good day meant her mother was in a pleasant mood. A good day was when her mother did not return to her with blood stains and injuries. Ausiliatrice would not complain about this rare occurrence, and it meant that her mother would sit with her and hold her and look at the moon with her. As they did when her mother was in a good mood. A rare occurrence. The small child shifted suddenly, turning up to look at her mother's face, faintly illuminated by the light of the moon.

"I hate my name," she told her mother, scrunching her nose daintily. Green eyes flickered from the open window to the child's face, a small smirk tugging at the corner of the woman's full lips. This conversation, the young girl's statement, the mother's response; it was all an echo.

"You'll learn to love it," her mother chided idly, her free hand intertwined in her daughter's dark, wild locks, "just as I learned to love you, Ausiliatrice." 

* * *

 She loved her mother's eyes. Emerald, like my name she explained to her daughter. She wanted her mother's eyes very much. She hated her own. But, despite this, Ausiliatrice loved how she looked. Just like her mother. Almost, at least.

Wild curls swayed around her face, which was rounded with childhood youth and fat, hair a darkened coffee of the blackest taste. Only slightly darker than her mother's but close enough to be beautiful. Her nose, a pleasant slope, her lips plump, filled. Just like her mother.

Almost. Ausiliatrice hated that almost.

Her skin was lighter, something else she despised. She wanted her mother's skin; dark, rich, purely radiant, no matter the scars and wounds the speckled it. Her mother was beautiful in every way, even when speaking the foulest language and grunting in pain, face distorted as she set a broken bone in place. She was gorgeous as she nearly yelled at her own daughter for stepping a foot out the door she was told to never to exit without Esmeralda being there to lead her, to protect her. And her eyes, those glimmering green eyes that hid so much, but mostly shone with anger and distaste, except those times when she looked into her daughter's eyes with an emotion Ausiliatrice was too young to recognize.

Ausiliatrice had her father's eyes. Black and abyss-like, absorbing light instead of shining with it like her mother's seemed to do.

"You have your father's eyes," her mother would often mutter, staring at her daughter from across the table. The candled flickered uneasily between them, reflecting on the glass bottle, half emptied in her mother's hand. Black eyes tilted towards the wound on her mother's shoulder, the bandage already soaked with red. They returned to the green of her mother's eyes, a much more preferable color to look at.

"Did you love him?" The girl asked boldly. She had no right to speak of this, she knew. At least, not the kind of love that they were discussing. She had only read about this love, between princes and princesses; she had only seen this love, between two strangers the few times her mother let her out with her, sticking right to Esmeralda's side as she watched the two strangers gaze at each other longingly before touching. These were different touches, sometimes simply hands, often times of lips, and occasionally other places that Ausiliatrice was not familiar with.

Later in life she would realize that this was not love at all; lust was the proper name. Not love, but lust (something that the girl, even as a woman would never understand, would never feel, never experience; and she would be content with this).

"No," her mother sneered, scrunching her nose. The woman shifted, lifting the bottle to her lips as she did so, "but I'll be damned if I didn't love those eyes."

Ausiliatrice hated her eyes. Later she would wonder if it was because she hated her father. No, she would realize. She couldn't hate a man she didn't know. That just didn't make sense; Ausiliatrice would at least have to meet the man before she hated him. That was proper. It was just the eyes that she hated, because they were not her mother's. Emerald. Esmeralda.  _Ausiliatrice_.

But, her mother loved her eyes. Ausiliatrice could learn to love them too, she decided.

Just like her mother taught her. 


	2. Her Mother Taught Her to Listen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ausiliatrice was never much of a talker. Her mother taught her to listen, and listen she did.

**Lesson 1:**

**Her Mother Taught Her to Listen**

* * *

 

Ausiliatrice was never much of a talker. Her mother taught her to listen, and listen she did. She much preferred it to talking. She was aware of different languages at a young age. She liked the way they sounded, the words she couldn't understand. She didn't much care to. That is, until her mother reprimanded her for it.

"You need to know what they're fucking saying," her mother scolded, pulling her daughter along after she commented on how pretty the words sounded, the noises jostling against each other harshly in the market place. Heartbeats and rhythms everywhere, but Ausiliatrice only focused on her mother's own vibrations spit firing from her mouth.

"You need to know what people are saying," she continued, "when you don't know, they get ahead of you, and soon enough, you're running after them. You get left behind. They take advantage of you, they use you, they take you for the damned fool you are. You don't want that, right?"

The child shook her head quickly and fiercely, her curls swishing with the motion. She didn't want to be left behind. She didn't want to be alone.

"Then listen," her mother repeated. _"Learn_."

* * *

 

She pressed her ear against the cold ground, laying her small body flat under the sofa. Her black-abyss eyes followed the man's feet callously as they waded through the small living area. She listened to his footsteps and likened them to a heartbeat. She adored heartbeats. They seemed to be the only constant thing in her life, even this early on. She enjoyed heartbeats of all kinds; the ticking of a clock, the quick lifespan of a ring of a bell, the soft thud-thump of a man's footsteps echoing through the ground, her mother's. She loved her mother's heartbeat.

This was normal, like a heartbeat. A rhythmic pace-keeper to Ausiliatrice's life, just like her and her mother's constant movement. She closed her eyes, and listened. She was good at listening, a valuable skill according to her mother.

"Just close your fucking mouth and listen," she snapped at her, shifting her eyes quickly out the window once more. They were in France, Ausiliatrice thinks, at the time. Months ago, the tells herself. Ah, but time is such a fickle visitor to Ausiliatrice. "Hear all those people?" her mother asked, softer. "Close your eyes. Listen." And Ausiliatrice did. She picked up quick jabs of words, conversation. French, she told herself, just as her mother told her.

"They got no fucking sense," her mother said, green eyes narrowed as she scanned the street below them, "jabbering away, in their own little worlds. Ears shut, mouths open, not even hearing what their own damned mouths are saying. But me and you," the jabbed her head in the direction of her daughter, eyes still shut tight, listening obediently, hanging onto every word of her mother's, "we're different. We got ears and we're going to use them. We listen first," she told her daughter, gentler, "but don't you dare fucking forget your voice. That needs to be strong too. You got that? You need to be strong."

In her memory, Ausiliatrice nodded.

Back in Russia (where they speak Russian, she knew, after listening when they had first arrived), Ausiliatrice pressed her ear harder against the ground, slamming her eyes shut to listen to the man's footsteps, and then, more thuds, traveling quickly. Her mother, she recognized. She knew Esmeralda's heartbeats well. This was normal. This is how it always ends. Ausiliatrice listened. The smack-thunk of a weak door being thrown open, the scraping of a man turning on his heel, and her mother's annoyed click of tongue. The millisecond click of a cartridge. Ausiliatrice did as her mother told her to and listened, and listened and  _listened_.

Until the gunshots melted into heartbeats.

* * *

“She will be back, my child.”

Abyssal eyes shifted from the statue in front of her (of Mary, of a Mother, but what kind of mother did that make Esmeralda in comparison Ausiliatrice wondered).

“I know,” she said simply.

(Because her mother always would, wouldn’t she?)

Father Salvia allowed a small frown of surprise. Then softened.

“Why not join the other children in the front?” he asked the child, barely kneeling to her level and gesturing to the front of the church. Where others her age kneeled and listened as another leader related prayer to them. The colors of stained glass were absorbed uselessly by the girl’s eyes, and once again she turned away.

Father Salvia rose and began to walk, not wanting to force the girl who was hurriedly pushed into the church’s care.

(only for a few days, her mother had gruffly promised, hand underneath a ratted jacket on what he could only assume was a gun. But ah, in this town? In this time? Father Salvia was used to their types, and would do anything to help the children that fell onto their doorstep)

But he stopped, hearing a small question from the girl.

“Why do you pray?” she asked solemnly, her eyes, demeanor, voice far too old for her age, “What if they don’t answer.”

A moment, for Father Salvia to absorb her question; a soft smile when he did. Letting out a small puff, he once against approached her and knelt to her level,

looking up at The Virgin Mary with her.  

“It goes both ways, my child,” he explained her, “Not only do we pray in hope of God listening and helping how He can, but we must listen as well. For His answer. For His help. Not always is it a full conversation, or even audible.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Doesn’t?” the man echoed.

“Answer. Help,” she said with small, exhausted shrug (but how, he wondered, could one so young already be tired and so worn).

And the Father smiled and replied gently,

“Then you haven’t been listening well enough.”

* * *

The bag clunked heavily on the table, challenging the flimsy wood with its weight. Ausiliatrice knew this bag well; the bag she was never allowed to touch. Ever, her mother emphasized, until I say so, until you can shoot straight. She has of yet to say that, but Ausiliatrice is fine with waiting. She was a patient child.

"Always listen," her mother told her, unzipping the bag and pulling out a gun, "to the number of gunshots. Count them," she ordered, looking her daughter straight in the eyes, daunting. "You need to know when you're going to run out, and when they're going to run out." She didn't have to ask who 'they' were.

Her mother proceeded to pull out numerous guns, relaying various numbers, all of which the child nodded, and noted, and gently folded and stored this information away into her mind, already knowing that this would inevitably save her life, even at the age of four. She listened as her mother counted.

Ausiliatrice was a good listener.

 


	3. Her Mother Taught Her to Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ausiliatrice was meant to kill, she knew. She was her mother's daughter.
> 
> She was her father's child.

**Lesson 3:**

**Her Mother Taught Her to Kill**

* * *

 

"Does it hurt?" Ausiliatrice nodded, biting her bottom lip. Her mother tightened the bandage around the girl's arm, resounding a whimper. Accusing green eyes shot to Ausiliatrice's face, warning.

"It hurts," Ausiliatrice repeated verbally. It was her first gunshot wound; a momentous, and unavoidable occasion. Esmeralda was not there in time, a fact that haunted the woman, seeing the pout - _grimace_ , on her daughter's face. This bothered the woman, angered her even; but her daughter couldn't know that.

"No," Esmeralda corrected her daughter, hands moving from her arm to her daughter's face, cupping her cheeks gently, despite the sharp, hardened look in her eyes, "it doesn't hurt. _Never_ say that. They don't know that you're hurting. They can't know, don't you fucking dare let them know that," she released Ausiliatrice's face, "Got it? Squash that pain; kill it. Never let it control you." The little girl hardened her expression, and nodded. Her mother dipped her head in approval, pushing herself up and beginning to retrieve the small amount of medical supplies that she had spread across the floor.

Black-abyss eyes followed the woman's movement, ignoring the throbbing heat in her arm, restraining her other from rising to its aid.

It hurt.

But her mother couldn't know that.

* * *

"Pull the trigger."

Ausiliatrice weighed the gun in her hand gingerly, her eyes flickering to the man bleeding out against the wall in front of her. Red spread beautifully from him, the hilt of the knife stuck into his shoulder accenting the wall gorgeously. Esmeralda had done her part, having finished her interrogation easily. Ausiliatrice had counted the man's missing fingers, color seeping from them into the floor. His nose bent at a proud, crooked angle, his lip impressively swollen. His eyes were dead, and his body would follow quickly. A weak heartbeat, Ausiliatrice noted. A weak resolve. Her mother would describe him as pathetic. Ausiliatrice would agree.

"You need to get used to killing," her mother instructed, her warm, just washed hands gently resting on the girl's shoulders, "You need to get good at it, Ausiliatrice. Pull the trigger." Her steady-black eyes shifted from the gun to the man's eyes. An understanding flickered between them. He knew his fate, and there was a grave acceptance of it. She knew her fate as well, she realized, six years old lifting a gun, and that this would be a regular part of it. She would grow used to this, she knew, her mother knew (after all, Esmeralda had always regretted not growing accustomed to killing earlier in her life, and was not going to inconvenience her daughter in the same way).

Ausiliatrice was meant to kill, she knew. She was her mother's daughter.

She was her father's child.

She pulled the trigger with ease, liking the sound of the gunshot; the man's last heartbeat.

* * *

Six women, all scantily clad cooed over Ausiliatrice in an adoring manner, some hands reaching to brush the child's curls, asking questions that Ausiliatrice was too disinterested to answer. Her eyes roamed beyond the entourage that had gathered before her, noting the other woman, barely covered by a thin, short robe, that Esmeralda was walking to meet (nine in the room altogether, counting her mother and herself).

It was meant to be a private conversation, Ausiliatrice knew, watching as her mother and the woman talked in hushed tones. The stranger stood tall, a leader, proud and beautiful. Her heartbeat would be strong and admirable, Ausiliatrice imagined, similar to her mother's. The woman lifted a curtain to one of the doorways in the room and led Esmeralda in. Ausiliatrice relaxed as she was picked up, invited into one of her admirer's laps in a high sitting chair.

This was a safe place, she knew. Her mother would not have left her here if not. Good people, she decided as well, no matter how touchy they were with the small girl.

Occasionally, some would leave the room and others would return. They retreated to their vanities that were scattered around the room, taking money that was messily stuffed into their clothing, counting it mercilessly, and then storing it carefully in different places. Ausiliatrice was shuffled around to different women, who she found different in every way, interesting in each of their aspects. The girl liked listening to their words, how they sounded. She asked to hear their heartbeats and they obliged, albeit amused, if not confused. Although she enjoyed their company, she eventually wandered to the curtain her mother had entered.

Three women remained in the room, all occupied at their mirrors. Ausiliatrice fingered the curtain gently, lifting it to peek in. Her mother sat on one arm of a large, worn couch that mirrored the aesthetic of the rest of the building. A disgruntled expression was on her face as she took another drag of the cigarette she held, her eyes a storming emerald.

"You'd think they'd just fuck off," she muttered, her attention focused solely on the woman sitting on the other arm. She had disregarded her robe completely, leaving her chest bare, only wearing a thin piece of underwear to cover her bottom half. Her expression was more relaxed, patient, much more than Esmeralda's (but often, that was not an impressive feat).

"You know more than me," she said, voice surely and melodic, "that they won't do that, not until you're dead."

"You forgot about my brat," Esmeralda spat. Ausiliatrice stiffened at her mention. "They're out for her too. She's growing fast. I took a liking to the brat; didn't think I would when I first got myself knocked up," she admitted callously, with a small smirk of pride, "Killed her first bastard last year. Two more since then."

"Ah," the woman breathed out, "already, huh? Sad."

"Necessary," Esmeralda corrected. "You know that, Ana."

"Aren't you tired?" the woman asked lethargically, slipping off the arm rest and onto the couch, now facing fully away from Ausiliatrice, "of running, I mean."

"You know I won't be caught. Can't be caught," Esmeralda spat, clicking her tongue in annoyance, her head turning sharply towards Ausiliatrice, startling the child with her sudden eye contact.

"Except by one," the woman drawled, her voice quirking in amusement, "invite your brat in. I want to see her." Esmeralda gestured with her head and Ausiliatrice obeyed instantly, ashamed by her naive eavesdropping. And yet, there was a warmth to the situation. Esmeralda knew she was listening the moment the girl peeked in, adding truth to her words. Her mother pulled her up onto the couch in one movement. Closer now, she took in the features of the other woman.

Her skin was a lovely, smooth velvet-black; much darker than her mother's. Her eyes were impossibly duskier, similar to Ausiliatrice's own. Perhaps seeing this part of herself in the woman comforted the child, along with the immense calmness that radiated from her. Her presence was that of rainclouds, tranquil, but immensely powerful, on the verge of breaking.

Wrinkled hands, the only hint that gave away her true age, cupped the girl's face gently, her eyes crinkled as they moved up the child's face, taking in every feature. Ausiliatrice raised her own hand, and pressed it on the outside of the woman's wrist. Ausiliatrice had been right about her heartbeat. Her expression dropped when she reached her eyes, and Ausiliatrice almost frowned noticing this.

"That's problematic," the woman said, "even I recognize those eyes, and I've been out of the game for years. He wasn't as big when I started and now…" she trailed off, tearing her eyes away from Ausiliatrice and back to her mother. "I see why you're being so cautious."

"Never gonna have a normal life, that's for sure," her mother commented, blowing smoke over Ausiliatrice's head, "he made damned sure of that."

"You said you wanted a man with power, but this," she trailed, shifting back to the girl, "was too ambitious, Esme." Her mother shrugged casually, fingers moving to meander through Ausiliatrice's dark curls.

"I'm an ambitious girl," she mused with the tone of only half a lie.

"Ah, where are my manners," the woman blinked, waving her hand in the air lazily. She looked back at Ausiliatrice, leaning forward slightly. "I'm Mariana, an old friend of your mother's."

"Ausiliatrice," she introduced herself politely, just as her mother had taught her. Esmeralda snorted.

"Old is right," she drawled, causing Mariana to frown.

"Only because you're so young. What, your daughter seems to be seven or eight, not older than ten," Mariana guessed, looking over Ausiliatrice once more.

"Seven," Esmeralda supplied, "birthday next month." Mariana's body tensed, and Ausiliatrice watched in curiosity as the woman came to a very sudden realization. Ausiliatrice leaned back slightly, watching rainclouds shifting to storms.

"Seventeen," Marina breathed out, leaning back on the couch and letting her head fall back, her tone sounding disappointed, angered? Disbelief? Ausiliatrice could not name the emotion. "You got knocked up at seventeen. The fuck, Esme. I don't even have any girls that young here!” Her head snapped up suddenly. "The fuck were you thinking? You don't tell me shit for nine years and I have to find out you got pregnant through my network, and now I learn that you had the kid at seventeen? Did he even know, or did you lie to him like you lie to everyone else, huh?"

Anger, Ausiliatrice decided at that moment, with a hint of disappointment. But this was a different type of anger than she was used to. It wasn't burning rage, like her mother's. This rage was quiet, silence of the deadliest kind, only showing through Mariana's dark eyes. A rain filled, flooding storm.

"It's not my fucking fault that was the only way out," her mother remarked, "like hell I was going to rot like that. I'm not a fucking house wife, and you know that. It was the best way to disgrace that bastard."

"That bastard was your fath-"

"Don't you fucking dare try to call him that!" Her mother shouted suddenly, causing Ausiliatrice to move forward quickly, away from her mother. She turned back to see her mother seething, even on the verge of tears. This was new, she noted, settling in between the two women; the one, true neutral in the room.

"That man was never a father to me."

Silence. Green eyes shifted to the child, shame, embarrassment overtaking the anger. She snarled and looked away, taking another drag from her cigarette before angrily throwing it on the ground. She shifted herself to step on the ashes, killing them efficiently. The older woman watched with sad eyes, giving time for Esmeralda to calm herself.

"You know you could have come to me," Mariana reminded her in a soft tone, "you always ha-"

"It was my problem, Ana," Esmeralda snapped suddenly, "I dealt with it alone."

"Like hell," Mariana hardened, retaking her ground, "you brought a fucking kid into this," she roughly gestured at Ausiliatrice with her hand, "You aren't alone anymore. You can't keep doing this. Esmeralda, you're a mother, for fuck's sake! You can't just wander around, running for all your life. You may be a typical cloud, but your daughter's sure as hell not one. Not yet. And with who her father is, she's in even more danger."

"I'm protecting her," Esmeralda shot, looking away in anger, in shame, in slight realization, but that was hidden quickly by anger again. "I'm teaching her."

"As much as you'd like to think you are, you're not enough to keep her safe. As long as you're carting her around, as long as she's his daughter, she'll never be safe," Mariana reminded her harshly. Esmeralda rose quickly, grabbing Ausiliatrice's arm and moving towards the curtain.

"Fuck this," she dismissed, growling, "I don't need to hear this."

"Esme," Mariana called out, standing as well. "Please," she said, softer. Her mother stopped, standing with her back towards her old friend. Ausiliatrice looked between the two older women, listening intently, silently, as she always does.

"You know you always have a home here," Mariana offered, "you and Ausiliatrice." Esmeralda left out a puff of dry laughter.

"After than whole argument? You know I won't do that to you," she answered without turning back. "I've killed that life, and everything that went with it. We're on our own," her mother said, squeezing her daughter's hand gently, "and that's how we like it."

 


	4. Her Mother Taught Her to Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't hiding. No, Esmeralda was far too prideful to call it that.

**Lesson 4:**

**Her Mother Taught Her to Hide**

* * *

 It wasn't hiding. No, Esmeralda was far too prideful to call it that. It was being discrete. It was being adaptable. It was never staying long enough for warmth. It was never having any belongings for Ausiliatrice to truly call her own. It was never having a home.

It was freedom, to Esmeralda. And that was something Ausiliatrice never understood. Freedom wasn't being chased from place to place. Freedom wasn't being forced to pack up and move. Freedom wasn't killing those who knew their location. Freedom wasn't blood and murder, or bullets and guns, or knifes, or death.

But did Ausiliatrice really, truly know what freedom meant? No. She was far too young and inexperienced to have her own definition.

But, she was not young enough to know that this kind of freedom, the kind her mother clung to dearly and desperately to? This was not the freedom she wanted.

Hiding, she knew, was not freedom.

But her mother didn't call it that, and Ausiliatrice learned to hide her thoughts well.

* * *

She met her mother's eyes; green clashing awfully against bright onyx (confirmed, ready, but not scared, never scared. Esmeralda made sure to beat that out of the child quickly). She tossed her the gun as the door was slammed into.

"Hide."

Her mother blew the candle out, which had recently been the only light in the room. Ausiliatrice dove for the small hallway, pushing her back firmly against the wall. Eyes open, adjusting to the darkness far quicker than her mother ever could, she counted the footsteps of the intruders. Three men. One light footed, leading. The heaviest in the back.

She waited. She listened. She watched, carefully, as the first shape passed her position and moved onward in the room she had just been sitting in. A tall, lanky man, she could tell from his shape. She aimed for what she thought was the nape of his neck. She thought right, pushing herself from the wall and running out of the hallway, entering the room and securing herself in the corner before his body even hit the ground.

Footsteps followed, but this is what she knew would happen. Shooting would give away her location, obviously, and so she was prepared to flee. This was natural. She was used to this.

She heard choking sounds from the other room. Her mother was taking care of the largest advisory, it seemed.

Four bullets left.

She shot the man who followed her in the middle of the forehead before he could turn around to aid his companion. Mother always liked it when she shot people like that. Clean. Neat. As long as it was seen from the front. In one perspective, if done right, it could be seen almost as beautiful as the death that accompanied it. Ausiliatrice lingered on the other perspective a little too much for her liking.

In the forehead, so the gun wound could be shown off proudly, her mother always told her.

The girl slumped against the wall, waiting, listening, as her mother always told her to do when this happened.

She was happy to hide in the dark if it meant she wouldn't have to look at corpses of those she killed.

* * *

Her mother indulged in many sexual relationships, and Ausiliatrice had witnessed her sort through numerous partners in her lifetime.

"You have a kid?" one asked, head tilting slightly to the side, spying Ausiliatrice from her spot in the corner. The child didn't even bother looking up at the man, knowing this conversation well enough.

"Yeah," Esmeralda slurred, slipping into his lap as her arms slipped around his neck, straddling him and began layering sloppy, drunken kisses along his neck. This left her words mumbled, disordered, distracted. Ironic, Ausiliatrice would always note, that she would feign distraction while she was doing so well distracting them.

"Asshole knocked me up."

Asshole, she would always say when talking about him to them.

"That man," she would say, when talking to Ausiliatrice late, late at night. Drunk. Holding a bottle. Still drinking. "That man… he su' was something." And her eyes were glazed with a look that Ausiliatrice did not understand, nor did she have the curiosity to. But that look was unique. Different. Not like the looks she gave the others who come and went but never came back. They were never talked about afterwards. Not like her father was.

"I actually had to talk to him, ya' know?" Esmeralda sputtered one day, sprawled out on the stone-cold floor. Ausiliatrice watched her silently from her position on the only chair in the room, the one, thin, ragged blanket in their possession wrapped around her wire-frame shoulders. Esmeralda laughed and rolled on her side.

"Wiggling my ass and shaking my breasts in his face just didn't get them 'ike the others," she recalled with a sloppy smile. "Actually had to talk to the bastard! Get 'im interested. Talked about offin' people at first," she continued, her smile dropping. "Damn, could that man kill. Bastard just loved getting complimented. Got him off." Her eyes drooped and her earlier smile was completely gone. Faded.

The dream was over.

But Esmeralda kept sleeping. She tried to recreate it, with the others. This is what Ausiliatrice thought. This is what she theorized. Why else would her mother go through so many people? She was never truly happy afterwards. But was she ever really happy? Did their life, as it was, ever have any room for happiness?

"Fu- Dammit, brat, get the hell out!" Esmeralda would say, shooing her out the door, recovering from where the other woman had nearly dropped Esmeralda. Her mother glared at her as the other woman turned away, embarrassed and covering her breasts, her shirt having already been torn off by Esmeralda on the way up.

"Scram, brat," Esmeralda would spit before slamming the door shut, leaving Ausiliatrice alone in the hallway. The girl turned and leaned against the door, sliding against it until she was sitting, hugging her knees and staring at the number written messily in marker on the door in front of her.

Ausiliatrice got the message:

Scram.

Leave.

Hide. 


	5. Her Mother Taught Her to Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Esmeralda had never hesitated so much in her life, and yet, with this child, she often found herself surprised.

**Lesson 5:**

**Her Mother Taught Her to Wait**

* * *

  _Death doesn't discriminate_

_Between the sinners and the saints,_

_it takes and it takes and it takes_

_and we keep living anyway._

_We rise and we fall_

_and we break_

_and we make our mistakes._

_And if there's a reason I'm still alive_

_when everyone who loves me has died_

_I'm willing to wait for it._

_I'm willing to wait for it._

_I am the one thing in life I can control_

_I am inimitable_

_I am an original_

_I'm not falling behind or running late_

_I'm not standing still,_

_I am lying in wait_

**_\- "Wait for It", written by Lin-Manual Miranda, performed by Leslie Odom Jr._ **

* * *

 "Where are we going?"

Esmeralda barely glanced over at her daughter, then hesitated, her eyes lingering on the bandages around the girl's torso and stomach. The old, wretched car that they had stolen (killed a man for) jumped and veered.

"Fuck!" Esmeralda spat, and swerved the car back onto the nearly indistinguishable dirt road running through the middle of the wild savanna. Ausiliatrice blinked, then returned to looking out the window and viewing the wild life of this new, interesting place. Herds of gazelles, zebras,  _families_  had run alongside them and then veered to the distance away. She had seen the long stalks of giraffes in the distance, usually around the small clumps of trees found every few miles or so.

Ausiliatrice had been hurt. Badly too, and had just now somewhat recovered enough to travel.

There was a change, Ausiliatrice noticed, in her mother. Esmeralda didn't view her the same, was far more careful around her. The young girl didn't know what to think of this, but was not the one for confrontation at this age.

But she notices things. Holy fuck, Esmeralda often thought, do those eyes take in everything. She had noticed how they were being attacked more often, more people following them, closing in on them. And it was only getting worse, Ausiliatrice realized. And it wouldn't stop until they were dead, Esmeralda knew. Both of them.

Which was why they had traveled here and continued through the African savanna, nearly in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles away from the closest town, and even that was small. The sun was setting soon, Ausiliatrice noticed, looking in the rear-view mirror.

The end of another day.

With her keen eyes, that saw far, far too much, Ausiliatrice soon spotted what they were driving towards. Settled comfortably in the middle of a clump of trees, providing some shade, was a stilted, tall house. Wooden stairs, the same material as all the house, led upwards to a large porch, shaded too in areas by outreaching branches. It was a medium sized, quaint house. In front of the house was a single, old and very used looking jeep, which they parked besides, dust billowing behind the vehicle as they did. Esmeralda wordlessly got out, and gestured to her daughter, who hurriedly jumped out and followed her mother up the steps and to the porch.

Ausiliatrice quickly surveyed the area, sweeping the ground with her eyes as she went up the stairs. They lingered on a large, clearly feline foot print on the ground below the house, and then continued on to take in the details of the porch. It took up most the house, and was half way covered with the roof, which jutted out and provided shade. A round table stood on it, already littered with bottles, most empty. One not but already opened, positioned closer to the house than the railings, which looked out over the great expanse of the savanna. The wall of the house itself held one single door and then a small, screen window. Ausiliatrice stayed behind, her eyes looking out to the savanna.

This feeling? Was it longing? Her heart felt seized with this, whatever it was, as she looked and looked and wanted. But what? She did not know at this point in her young life, and wondered if she ever would. But, she thought, closing her eyes for once, and listening, to the sounds, the noises of the savanna. She enjoyed the heartbeat she heard here.

Esmeralda roughly knocked on the door, and then paused, pulling her shirt down a bit more to reveal more cleavage, and then messing with the already cropped bottom of her shirt, showing more abdomen. She then crossed her arms, and jutted her hip, waiting. The door opened.

Esmeralda stared down the barrel of the rifle that greeted her, her green eyes fiery and fierce, as they always, always were.

"…. Esme?" It was a hollow, tragic sound. Ausiliatrice shifted her position slightly, watching as the woman let her rifle fall almost lifelessly, and stared, gaping at her mother.

She looked to be of Arabic descent, or at least middle eastern, with an olive skin tone further tanned from years of exposure. She looked to be the same age as her mother, but worn. Tired. She had light brown eyes and choppy, dark brown, short hair framing her face messily. One piercing on her nose. She stared at Esmeralda openly, longingly, sadly. As if seeing a ghost she had been trying to escape.

"I thought…" the woman breathed out finally in Arabic, with a disbelieving, breathy smile. Happy? No, Ausiliatrice decided. This was not happiness from a reunion. This was longing, lust even. Obsession.

"I thought you were gone, Esme…" she breathed out again, looking other her mother's body and quivering almost, "you left, and then I didn't know I-" she stopped, looking past Esmeralda and seeing Ausiliatrice for the first time. Her expression fell and Ausiliatrice witnessed so many things pass through those eyes.

Anger, rage, disbelief. Hurt. _Heartache_.

"That's the kid, isn't it?" she said, then sneered, looking back at Esmeralda angrily. So that's what she decided on. The emotion she settled with, Ausiliatrice thought. Anger, and so much of it, years of it.

"I need your help, Rashida," Esmeralda said calmly, in Arabic as well.

"So what? You think that you can just come and find me after all these years?" Rashida spat, moving past Esmeralda, past Ausiliatrice, refusing to look at the girl, and grabbing the open bottle on the table, her rifle still in hand, "I guess you need help, huh?" she sneered, shaking her head and taking a long drink.

"Look, I know I left-"

"Fuck yeah you left!" Rashida turned back suddenly, waving the rifle a bit and gesturing with it. "I thought you did it for us, Esme! But no, you just got yourself knocked up, and then left without saying a damn thing!"

Esmeralda calmly approached the woman as she continued ranting, much calmer than Ausiliatrice had ever seen her mother.

"I didn't think-"

"The hell you mean you didn't think?" Rashida snapped, "What else was I supposed to think when you did that, huh? You knew, you knew damned well-" she stopped suddenly, Esmeralda having come closer, and stopped her words with a chaste kiss. Rashida closed her eyes and practically fell into it. Her rifle clattered to the ground. Esmeralda snaked her hand to hers, retrieving the bottle from it, and taking it. Breaking the kiss, but not moving away, still close, so close, she lifted the bottle to her own lips and then set it gently on the table.

"I  _did_  know," she said sultrily, almost whispering in the woman's ear. Ausiliatrice could see Rashida's body shaking, shivering. She had never seen her mother affect someone so deeply. It was a weakness, Ausiliatrice realized, one that her mother was a professional at exposing and poking, examining and using to her advantage. And she had no regrets, not one.

She wasn't doing this for herself, after all, Esmeralda reminded herself, barely tracing Rashida's hip with her hand, and slowly lifting her eyes to meet the eyes of an old flame that she felt nothing for (that she never felt anything for).

She was doing it for her daughter. Ausiliatrice. For Reborn. For the possibility of her surviving, and perhaps, maybe, them meeting some day. Reuniting.

"I need your help," she whispered, then leaned away, walking around Rashida to sit at the table, finishing off the bottle before setting it down, clinking, echoing against the wood. Rashida stood, almost paralyzed by the events that just occured, then lurched, and whipped around.

"You need help?" she repeated, emotionlessly, then gutted out cold, hollow laughter. "You think you can seduce me into doing what you want? Just like everyone else?" Esmeralda hummed slyly, propping her head and placing her elbow on the table as she leaned forward.

"I think I just did," she pointed out with a sly smile. Rashida hesitated, caught in her fall, caught in Esmeralda's web, her hold strong over the other woman. And Rashida couldn't deny this.

"I could have helped you," she said quietly, hanging her head, "years ago. When this started." Rashida lifted her eyes, turning slightly and looking back at Ausiliatrice, the child.

"We could have had a life together, Esme," she said quietly, stated.

"I could have had a lot of lives, with plenty of people," Esmeralda responded coldly, "but I'm just not that kind of woman, am I?" There was a pause, then Rashida nodded, agreeing. A cold sneer.

"Yeah, that's just who you are, huh?"

Because once Esmeralda's mind was made up, she knew, looking at Ausiliatrice, her daughter, and once it was made up? Well, she was never the type to return to things.

Ausiliatrice swallowed, her throat dry. She understood so much in this world, for one so young.

And she understood her mother's look perfectly.

"So you're just going to leave her here with me, huh?" Rashida asked coldly, crossing her arms, and looking out, away from the two.

"You're the only one I can trust," Esmeralda said sadly, not breaking eye contact with her daughter, who knew, she knew, she knew so well, too well. Rashida seemed surprised, shocked, honored by this. Her face softened, and she looked at Esmeralda's face, still beautiful, young looking, retaining her youth still, for as much as she has done, as much as she has suffered and had made others suffered. Esmeralda had made Rashida suffer so much.

Without an answer, without confirming anything, Esmeralda rose, and walked past Rashida, giving her one last look, a warning? Before walking to Ausiliatrice. She stared down at her daughter, and then walked on, pausing at the steps. Her eyes flashed, an unfamiliar feeling, and Ausiliatrice could see her mother tense, almost jerk as if wanting to do something, an action that the brain, the heart, the personality, that _Esmeralda_ herself was not familiar with.

She was not one for goodbyes, after all. They both knew this well.

Esmeralda hesitated, looking back, gazing at her daughter, her own flesh and blood that she had been carting around with her for ten years, and then went forward suddenly, startling Ausiliatrice greatly.

It was an unpracticed action, and that was clear; a chaste, rough kiss on the forehead. Esmeralda lingered after, her lips still barely brushing against the skin of her daughter's forehead.

Despite Rashida watching, bristling, behind them, this exchange remained private, between the mother and daughter in the middle of nowhere, on the porch of a stranger, or an old lover that still loved too much.

"Listen, brat," she breathed out, barely above a whisper, and Ausiliatrice listened intently, memorizing her mother's voice, knowing what this was, "Remember what I taught you, got it? Because even if I don't come back," she wouldn't was the silent exchange, but not because Esmeralda did not want to return, no; death had been chasing her for far too long, and it was time, Esmeralda decided, to chase back.

"Even if I don't come back," she repeated, her body jerking, holding back a sob, Ausiliatrice realized, "you still learn from me, got that? I'm still teaching, hear that brat?" Ausiliatrice blinked, then met the eyes of her mother. Esmeralda hesitated, then reached into her pocket, bringing out a crumpled envelope and gently putting it in the girl's hands, making sure her small fingers closed around it.

"You've got your old man's eyes, you know that?" Esmeralda noted quietly, caressing her daughters face before taking her hand to the back of her head, and pushing forward gently until their foreheads were touching.

"I like you a lot more than I thought I would," she admitted with a sad cough of laughter. Ausiliatrice went forward suddenly, pressing her ear firmly against her mother's chest.

This, she knew, was the last time she would hear this heartbeat.

This was a goodbye. The last one.

Esmeralda had never hesitated so much in her life, and yet, with this child, she often found herself surprised. She nodded once, and the child let her mother go. Esmeralda rose and turned quickly, not wanting to look back anymore, because when did she ever do that?

"Don't die," she told her daughter, and then indicated her head slightly up, referring to the other woman, "and take care of my kid."

And with those words, and a harsh goodbye and severing a strange, and yet oddly beautiful relationship, she left.

Ausiliatrice stood there, still kneeling, staring as her mother went down the stairs. She then got up suddenly and went to the railing, leaning over and watching, intently watching as Esmeralda entered the vehicle and left, _she left_ , dust ruffling behind her and silhouetted by the large array of colors that was the sunset.

The end of a day.

Ausiliatrice took all this in with her black, abyssal eyes. Her father's eyes. She blinked once, but her eyes were dry, and she knew that there wasn't any sense in mourning.

She's not dead yet, she told herself,

foolishly.

She'll come back, she continued, and take her back, and it will be like a story book ending. Getting what they deserved.

But she did not know what her mother deserved, and she knew this story to be false.

But,

she could wait. She would wait, she decided, until her mother returned, and grow strong for her in the meantime.

After all; that's what her mother taught her.

* * *

The girl lifted a single hand, putting it in between the sun and her face, blinking her eyes, fanning her long lashes prettily. Her long, gorgeous hair lay sprawled, backgrounding her, masses of curls and waves. She shifted, bringing her knees up and her feet flat and felt her body relax once more. Her skin, not as dark as her mother's, but still tanned and darkened by spending six years under the sun of the savanna, was hot, but in a pleasant way that Ausiliatrice was used to.

Perhaps this, out in the open, wilderness, the savanna, was another home to her. She felt that she belonged, here, among predators. Above prey. In the sun, in the open; this felt like freedom to her, and perhaps she was now old enough to decide this. Six years she had lived here. Six years since her mother had left her. She closed her eyes, her hand still raised, and listened, listened hard and was silent, listening to her own heart beat, and breathing out sharply, listening keenly as it seemed to merge with the rhythms around her; the heart beat of the savanna, her own heart beat intermingled.

Her eyes snapped open, the deafening rhythm now gently fading. She let her hand fall, and rolled her head to the side, looking at her companions, not even ten feet away.

The eyes of the lioness, the largest and most proficient of the pride met Ausiliatrice's. The feline shifted, and then rolled to its other side, deciding that sleep was much more important than the girl.

But this was how it always went.

Ausiliatrice, pushed herself up and to her feet, grabbing her discarded shirt, and putting it swiftly back on. She reached for her gun, causing the sole lion's eyes to snap open as he slowly lifted his head, watching intently as Ausiliatrice placed the weapon in its halter at her hip. She met his eyes and paused, then, slowly, put one finger to her lips.

" _Shhhss_ …" she whispered quietly, maintaining eye contact, secretly pleased that it did not look away as others, people, humans, usually did. It blinked lazily, and yawned, then returned its large head to its earlier position, resting on crossed paws. Content with this, Ausiliatrice began backing away from the large pride, not turning her back until she was a considerable distance away. She stopped, viewing them once more, and feeling a pang. With her keen eyes, she saw as a lion cub shifted, then rub its head on the stomach of its mother, consequently kicking its sibling in the process, causing it to grumble, then growl. The sibling looked ready to defend, but the mother made one sound, not even bothering to look at her offspring. They were quelled. And then peace returned to the pride, after such a small disturbance.

Family.  _Love_.

Ausiliatrice longed for that. To find her own pride, to be among her own.

It was a maybe, a perhaps, that she would achieve this, if she truly wanted to. But for now, she was waiting. For her mother? Or for herself? She didn't know.

Ausiliatrice turned once more and began running suddenly, smiling smally as she felt her long hair fly back and the wind against her mostly exposed body. She reached out long arms and grabbed a branch, easily pulling herself into the tree gracefully, and making her way further up. She skillfully balanced herself on a branch, and walked out over the porch of the house she had been running towards, nestled in a cluster of trees in nearly the middle of the savanna. She let herself fall, then caught another branch, bouncing it, before falling completely, soundlessly dropping onto the large porch.

"The fuck you never use the stairs?" Rashida snapped at her, leaning on the railing with a cigarette and coldly watching Ausiliatrice, having witnessed her climb. Ausiliatrice didn't answer, and instead lifted her arms back to run through her hair and shake her head, dislodging dirt, sand, twigs. Rashida rolled her eyes, and looked to the distance again, not having expected much of an answer in the first place and looked for a distraction, anything not to look at her teenage charge.

"I don't get why you don't kill one of those lions," Rashida noted dryly, squinting her eyes and gazing at the pride, barely seen in the distance.

"It would be wrong," Ausiliatrice said simply. The older woman scoffed.

"Who are you to say right from wrong, huh?" she barked, glowering, "Was it wrong to kill that gazelle last week? The zebra the month before?" Rashida glanced over at Ausiliatrice, who had paused in the doorway of the house. She clicked her tongue, rolling her eyes and assuming that the girl was simply going to ignore the question.

"We're equals," she said suddenly. Rashida paused, then looked back at the girl, and as usual, winced, meeting her intense abyssal eyes.

"We both predators," Ausiliatrice continued, looking out towards the resting pride again, "and we understand that. There's no need to cause conflict." Rashida tore her eyes away from the girl, feeling a cold shiver run down her spine as she always did when looking directly into Ausiliatrice's eyes.

"You're fucking weird," she sighed, shaking her head and going down the stairs herself, heading for the devastated jeep. But, she recalled sadly, longingly, calling someone else strange as well, someone that looked so much like the girl. Rashida paused, gripping the handle of the door harshly.

It hurt. From her goddamn gut.

"We need more fruit," Ausiliatrice called, startling Rashida. The woman looked up suddenly, squinting her eyes against the sun filtering through the thin layer of leaves.

There was a small intake of breath, and Rashida almost hungrily took in the angelic form of the girl above her, eyes raking over her body that was developed now, like her mother's, just like Esmeralda when she was this age, so much like the woman she loved. From here, her eyes did not look unnatural as they usually did, but instead seemed to be a product of the sun behind her form. So much like her mother. So much like Rashida’s only love.

"You are going into town, aren't you?"

Rashida threw the door open suddenly, and almost fell into the car without answering. As she drove away, she glanced into her rear-view mirror, seeing Ausiliatrice gracefully jump down from the porch, and angle herself towards the savanna, once again looking at the pride.

If she was lucky, Rashida thought, Ausiliatrice would run out and never return. But then, Rashida would be lost again, with nothing to remind her of Esmeralda. Emptiness for years, again, again, _again_.

Rashida let out a ragged breath, forcing herself to look away. She had to, she told herself, stop seeing her in Ausiliatrice. And yet,

It hurt. It hurt so much.

* * *

Rashida did not come back at sunset, like usual. But Ausiliatrice wasn't worried. Although she appreciated the woman for taking care of her during Ausiliatrice's younger years, the two weren't particularly close. Rashida had taught her many things, after all, adding more languages to the girl's vocabulary, bringing her books to read, things of that sort and so on and so forth. But, the Arabic woman was no mother. She was no Esmeralda.

Often, conversations were strained, and so few words ended up being exchanged. It worked better this way. Ausiliatrice took to hunting after Rashida learned that the girl was proficient with a gun, and Ausiliatrice provided for them from that point on. Rashida went into town far more than Ausiliatrice, even though she could drive, even though Ausiliatrice had her own bike. But, Rashida didn't like Ausiliatrice going into town.

"You attract too much attention," the woman told her harshly, glancing back at the men who were blatantly staring at the thirteen year old girl as they walked through town. "Don't show so much leg! And for god's fucking sake, find a better shirt," she snapped, watching as Ausiliatrice easily lifted the heavy bags into their jeep. The girl looked Rashida dead in the eyes with a blank expression.

"It's hot."

"I know it's fucking hot!" Rashida growled, shutting the door harshly, "it doesn't matter! They're leering…" she trailed off, looking back over at the men. Ausiliatrice followed her gaze, and eventually met another. The youngest man of the group smiled charmingly, but dropped it upon seeing Ausiliatrice's eyes. He squinted, his expression confused, and leaned forward a bit, as it trying to tell if her eyes were as dark and endless as they looked. As they were.

She looked away quickly and hastily got in the jeep.

Rashida had told Ausiliatrice many times (mostly when drunk, primarily when drunk), that she had developed the body of a woman early. Like her mother, like Esmeralda.

"God," Rashida drawled, putting a hand on her forehead, then dragging it back until she was running a hand through short, choppy hair, "you look just like your mother when she was your age."

Ausiliatrice didn't answer, and remained stoic on her perch, sitting on the railing, with one long leg on the wood, and the other hanging, dangling on the other side. Looking to the savanna.

"We met when we were fifteen, you know," Rashida said with a sloppy smile, resting her head on folded arms, and looking, evaluating, Ausiliatrice. "Fell in love when she cussed me out and spit in my face," she said laughing, "a fucking spit fire. Way tougher than her bitch-ass brothers that's for sure. God," she said, hitting the table with her fist suddenly and raising her head, staring at Ausiliatrice, "you look just fucking like her! You've got her legs," she said, eyes starting at Ausiliatrice's feet, and raking their way up her body. Ausiliatrice remained rigid, this having happened before, ready to bolt, ready to flee. Ready to defend and attack, if needed.

"Her legs…" Rashida repeated again, "her ass, not as big of hips though, but you got some of her tits, that's for sure," she said, laughing robustly, then quieting, staring more intently at Ausiliatrice's face, "you've got her lips too…." her face contorted, almost angrily.

"But who's nose is that, huh?" she sneered, glaring at the girl now, tightening her grip on the glass bottle she had nearly finished, "and those fucking eyes! Those fucking, creepy-ass eyes, who's are those, huh? What bastard knocked her up and gave you that? Huh?!" She slammed the bottle down, shattering it, and cutting her own hand. She cursed loudly, and rose, kicking the chair as she went inside to their kitchen.

Ausiliatrice relaxed, letting out a small breath. It was always concerning when she got like this, but Rashida was so many things. Brash, yes, a drunkard at times, but protective too. Perhaps possessive.

A hunter had made a habit of coming by and trying to talk to Ausiliatrice when she was fifteen. He spoke to her in English. Thought her eyes were  _exotic_. Thought her skin and hair were striking,  _tropical_. Said that she was  _exquisite_. Said she was an  _African Goddess_.

Ausiliatrice ignored him, primarily, but she supposed he found this attractive as well. He would talk to her from the ground, and she would stay on the porch, not even looking down at him. What a poet he was, she would think dryly. He made smart habit, however, of visiting when Rashida was not at home, but grew bolder, even introducing himself to Ausiliatrice’s guardian.

Rashida found him annoying, and told him not to return. And he did, and he offered Ausiliatrice riches and golds, and a way away from here, this place. Not home. This house wasn't her home. The savanna though. The savanna.

She didn't answer. Rashida told him that she would shoot him if he didn't leave. He didn't and she did, trailing him and looking through the scope of her rifle as he screamed, holding his bloodied shoulder, running to his vehicle. Rashida clicked her tongue and lowered the gun.

"I was aiming for the head," she admitted, then paused, looking over at Ausiliatrice and viewing her.

"Are you happy here?" She asked, almost quietly.

Ausiliatrice didn't answer.

The next day, Rashida brought her a motorized bike from town.

Rashida wasn't a great shot, but that was not her area of expertise. Dual swords, hand to hand, this is what she used to excel in. Before retirement, of course, but it wasn't as much of retirement as running away. Getting away. Isolation.

Ironically, the ghost she was trying to forget had found her again.

Ausiliatrice's first three years of training with Rashida were grueling, painful. Rashida showed no mercy, especially when Ausiliatrice did not look like her mother. But, by that time, Ausiliatrice had already surpassed her teacher. Rashida had nothing more to teach her in that area, which left Ausiliatrice to train herself, work on marksmanship, which hunting fast game proved to be good practice for.

But, she had not learned to be a hunter in her time here;

she was a predator, and the other animals, the community of life that lived in the area, they became aware of this quickly, and adapted to fit Ausiliatrice in.

Ausiliatrice was anything if not an adapter. An unlined figure that simply avoided and floated around confrontation. And she floated well and mixed into this wild environment, and enjoyed it.

But this was not permanent. This was simply one area of her life she hoped to look back on fondly.

She was waiting, after all.

What for, she asked herself, shifting in her hammock, and looking up into the night sky seen between the leaves. What for, she thought, and tried to think of an answer to. She could not, and moved on, turning her head to the side.

The leopard was in the tree across from her, looking to be in thought as well. Like the lions, he was a regular visitor, perhaps even a companion as well. Ausiliatrice was glad that Rashida had never seen him, for she sleeps in the only bedroom of the house, but Ausiliatrice enjoyed her hammock, she enjoyed the solidarity away from her guardian.

If Rashida knew about the leopard, who made a habit of sprawling in the tree across from Ausiliatrice's hammock, then she would no doubt kill it. Or, have Ausiliatrice kill it because it got so close to the house.

Often, Ausiliatrice found herself enjoying the company of wild animals more than humans, and even being able to understand them more. There was a language there that she could brush against. Perhaps not speak, but understand. She could understand so much and so little.

And she guessed that they held this same respect for her, the wild animals being at ease with her and her presence, as if she were another lion, another leopard. Perhaps some humans would say that she let these beasts of the wild get too close to her. Perhaps they didn't want her to get too close to them (the humans, the humans, because these beasts have already accepted her as one of their own).

The leopard shifted, eyes flashing, catching the light of the porch below them. He shifted, and moved, mass of muscles rippling into a relaxed, yet ready position where he could easily pounce.

But Ausiliatrice did not worry, because even if it did attack her, she knew she could defend herself. He knew too, by the way he viewed her. Equals. _Predators_.

After all, she viewed a stampede of wildebeests or the kick of a giraffe much more dangerous than any of the large cats. She had heard far more stories of death by those means than by a lioness or leopard.

But, didn't they just look terrifying? Strong. Intense. Too much for the human eye, the human mind.

They often viewed these predators like they viewed her when she met their eyes, when they saw her eyes.

Predators, indeed. The same kind. Kindred spirits, perhaps? Or simply familiarity.

The leopard stiffened, its eyes going from half lidded to wide and tense, watching as the jeep returned to the house. Ausiliatrice watched too, eyes narrowing as it swerved and went far slower than usual. She watched too, as Rashida got out and slammed the door, swaying, her body barely outlined by dim light of the porch.

Ah, Ausiliatrice thought, it was one of  _those_  nights. But, she thought, eyes going to her companion, tensed as he too watched her caretaker slowly make her way up the stairs, she should come down before Rashida began looking for her, and risk her seeing the leopard. She enjoyed his company far more, after all.

Rashida almost jerked back as Ausiliatrice slid from her hammock and landed with quiet feet on the porch.

"You…." Rashida, whispered, far drunker than Ausiliatrice had thought, the drunkest the girl had ever seen in her six years staying here, "you're….." Ausiliatrice tensed, as the drunken woman approached, not knowing exactly what to do, not being able to read her when she was like this.

Rashida had gotten close, closer than before, to the point where Ausiliatrice could smell potently the alcohol that the woman seemed to be soaked in. Rashida grabbed her shoulder, causing the girl to stiffen, her fingers moving to her hip out of instinct, but realizing, becoming cold, that she did not have her gun with her, and it was lying, _defenseless_ , on the round table.

But Rashida had her rifle, as always, slung across her back. In easy reach and use for the drunkard.

The hand on her shoulder moved, brushing across Ausiliatrice's color bone, and then her neck before caressing her face. Lovingly. Obsessively. Ausiliatrice looked away from the rifle to her guardian's face, and realizing suddenly that Rashida was crying.

"Esme…" Rashida whispered, and tightening her grip, holding Ausiliatrice’s jaw painfully, "Esme you came back…"

Ausiliatrice stood, not knowing what to do,  _uncomfortable_ , incredible uncomfortable, and tried backing away as Rashida nearly pressed her body against Ausiliatrice’s own, but realizing that her back was against one of the posts supporting the roof. It became painful as Rashida pushed herself closer, and Ausiliatrice was uncomfortable, _uncomfortable_ , and  _cold_ , despite the warmth, the hotness of the older woman's body.

Ausiliatrice's heart beat fast, painful, uncomfortable, wrong, as Rashida's face drew closer to hers, and their cheeks met and her lips were nearly on Ausiliatrice's ear and she _reeked_ of alcohol, and Ausiliatrice hated it, she hated that she couldn't move.

"I knew…. I've always loved you," Rashida rasped into her ear, and Ausiliatrice could feel hot tears against her cheek and jolted as Rashida gently bit her ear lobe, but the woman wrapped her arms around Ausiliatrice waist and held her there, the bottle she had been holding clattering, shattering on the ground, and Ausiliatrice breathed heavy and closed her eyes tight as Rashida's hands roamed Ausiliatrice's body and grabbed her ass, and made their way under her shirt, and grabbed and squeezed, entered and  _hurt_  her,

while her lips continued on the side of her face, and Ausiliatrice closed her eyes tighter and leaned away, pressing more into the post digging into her back, scared,  _uncomfortable, violated_ , but couldn't _move_

and finally Rashida's mouth made her way to Ausiliatrice's, who drew her lips in, but there was force, there was passion- anger, rage. So much anger and resentment built up over years that Rashida put into this violation, and forced open the young girl's mouth and entered, while still grabbing, squeezing at the girl's body, wherever her hands roamed, until

Ausiliatrice's eyes snapped open, and she met the eyes of the leopard, watching with interest, almost concern.

She met the eyes of this predator and something snapped.

She bit Rashida's bottom lip and pulled harshly, tasting blood immediately. Rashida shot back and screamed, moving away from the girl

_thank god, thank god, thank god_

and yelling, cursing loudly. Ausiliatrice then moved suddenly, going for the door of the house, not even wincing as she cut her bare feet on the broken glass. She shot back, seeing a bullet tear into the wall of the house ahead of her. She tensed and looked, seeing Rashida, mouth bleeding heavily, and rifle in hand, shaking, shaking so much, and still crying, and glaring, and crying, until she sobbed, and fell to her knees, and letting the rifle fall as well.

A broken woman.

Ausiliatrice kept her eyes on the rifle, and stayed, frozen, _violated,_ shirt torn, and exposed, so exposed, _uncomfortable_.

"I'm sorry," Rashida choked out, garbled, wounded, but Ausiliatrice didn't really believe her.

"I just thought," she choked out, bringing her hands to hold her own face, but only smearing blood more, "I just thought…. I thought when you got pregnant, when you got knocked up…. and you came to me, I thought that, Esme, that you did it for us, that you ran away for me, because…. I thought that you wanted me, Esme, that you wanted to raise this child, your way to freedom, our way to a better life…. I thought that we would do this together!" She screamed, clutching her head. Ausiliatrice stiffened, seeing the leopard jump from its branch and onto the porch, attracted to the noise the woman was making, smelling the blood.

But Rashida didn't notice, and only continued crying, and screaming, looking longingly, hurt, heart achingly, at Ausiliatrice, not seeing the young girl – a child,  _violated_ , but seeing the woman she had obsessed over and lusted after for years.

"I thought that we could have a family, and we could raise a child together, and everything would be fucking perfect, but no!" she screamed louder, causing the leopard to tilt its head, not knowing what to make of this weak, pathetic animal, "No! You had to fucking run away like you always do! And leave me with the consequences, and leave me with memories, with thoughts of what could have happened….. I thought that you loved me, when you told me…." she said, slumping further and sobbing more, "I thought that you finally loved me as much as I loved you…."

Ausiliatrice moved all at once, going through the door, and passing through the small closet, to where she kept her few belongings, and tearing it open, still listening intently through the open door. Hearing Rashida still sobbing and rambling about the life she had longed for with Esmeralda:

The three of them as a family. Happy. Loving.

Not this nightmare; not this way.  _Uncomfortable, violated._

The places her lips touched, her hands roamed, tearing Ausiliatrice’s shirt, hurting Ausiliatrice, still hot, burning Ausiliatrice's skin.

Ausiliatrice grabbed a bag and began stuffing her clothes into it. Her hand hovered over an envelope, crumpled and discarded in the bottom of the basket. She picked it up, tenderly, recalling, remembering.

And she tore the envelope open, scanning over it with abyssal eyes, absorbing the information like they absorbed all light. One word, six letters, printed maliciously, messily, in her mother's handwriting; a name, six letters, one word:

_Reborn_.

Ausiliatrice crumpled, the paper instantly, the name, the word, the letters burned like embers, like a branding into her mind.

She moved again, back into the kitchen, and opening a cabinet under the sink, bringing out another, bigger bag, and opening it; checking the guns and weapons inside, and taking them, along with wads of money from another drawer and stuffing them with her clothes, and stepping out again, eyes widening slightly, seeing that the leopard had drawn closer, and that Rashida was no longer sobbing, but scared, frightened, terrified,

backed up against the same post the she had trapped Ausiliatrice against earlier. Holding the rifle shakily once more, pointed at the beast that was much more powerful than her.

It was pathetic, really.

And her eyes flickered to Ausiliatrice, standing in the doorway ready to leave her, this place, and everything here,

because this place was never a home to the girl. Rashida was never anything, and now, she was even less.

Her eyes pleaded once, but then stopped, meeting the girl's eyes in full light now, instead of shadows like early.

Fear. Disgust. Hate.

Ausiliatrice looked at the leopard once more, and then at the rifle. She inclined her head sharply, and then turned, running down the stairs, using them for once.

No guilt. No regret.

The woman was armed after all. But, Ausiliatrice thought coldly, securing her bags on her motorized bike and swinging her leg over, she didn't think that made much of a difference. There was a single gunshot, and then a scream, which became gurgled, and then

silence.

Rashida had never been a good shot.

Ausiliatrice's bike roared to life and her headlight illuminated the nearly indistinguishable dirt road, following it, seeming endless and vast. The night sky sang above her, clear, so clear, and star bright, revealing galaxies upon galaxies.

Distinct and free. Endless.

The savanna moved around her, with her, hyenas barking, lionesses on the move and prowling, and she could see flashes of eyes watching curiously as she left

her home?

The savanna, with other predators like herself, companions. Yes, this had been a second home to her, _the savanna_ , never that house, that place. But the savanna. The savanna though.

She would leave now, she decided, for she couldn't return and the time was right, and she was ready.

She had her answer, and could feel the letter, the weight of the name in her pocket.

She was done with waiting.


	6. Her Mother Taught Her to Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whether with her looks, or her skills, she knew how to charm others. Even with her cold persona, Ausiliatrice would draw others in. Whether she wanted to or not.

**Lesson Six:**

**Her Mother Taught Her to Charm**

* * *

_"What's past is prologue. What's future is epilogue. This right here is maybe chapter four or five."_

**-Welcome to Night Vale**

* * *

 

Many thought her to be a woman, and perhaps, this was true. Her body at this time was very much developed like a woman, as she had already inherited her mother's figure, if at least not as voluptuous as Esmeralda's, but enough for eyes to linger too long. Her demeanor, just the same, with a serious expression always pressed onto her face. This, she thought, like her eyes, had to be from her father.

Reborn.

A dangerous man; someone one could not openly look for. She knew she had to be cautious, extremely careful in her footsteps when finding him. First, she had to make herself known, to eject herself out in the world of the underground; to make a name for herself. To be known and revered. And this, she accomplished easily enough.

She would take her kills easily enough from any distance, close or far, scaling buildings simply, and leaving just as. Obstacles were treated as playthings, distance a small feat left to her sight, her accuracy. An inheritance from her father, she figured.  _Reborn_.

Throughout her many acts as a mercenary, it was easy enough to find his connection to the Vongola. At this thought, her lips would purse, and her eyes would narrow. How  _troublesome_. In the position he was in, at the ninth's call and beckon like a lap dog, she couldn't proclaim her relationship with him and actively (loudly) seek him out.

No; that would be too troublesome for both her and her father.  _Reborn_.

But Ausiliatrice could wait. After all, she had waited for six years on the savanna, and that only aided her, honing her skills, increasing her speed, turning her into the predator she was born to be (she was her mother's daughter, her father's daughter). She could only hope her father was a predator as well; someone who would earn her respect.

And if not? Well.

She would wait and receive this information in time. This was easy enough to Ausiliatrice.

Whether with her looks, or her skills, she knew how to charm others. Even with her cold persona, Ausiliatrice would draw others in. Whether she wanted to or not. Perhaps it was an attribute her father had as well? Her father, _Reborn_ , the suave master assassin she had been searching for placidly.

And why did she seek him out? There was no point to it, really. She did not want her father's love, nor could she convince herself she needed it? For purpose in her life? Perhaps. Ausiliatrice desperately needed one to own herself, to call her own.

She realized, soon enough, that she was becoming known in the underground. Since she had left, she had headed to Europe, and had remained around the Mediterranean. Although she made a point to pass through Italy often to listen for information, she a made a habit of never staying too long. Part of this?

No place felt right. This is not where she belonged, she would realize, having stayed just for a few days. Money from kills and bounties had managed her and kept her travel expenses, and she could rightly go wherever she wanted and find somewhere she could stay and live.

But that wouldn't be home.

And this was fine for now. Ausiliatrice felt that she wasn't quite ready for another home yet. She enjoyed not staying in one place, and often found herself uncomfortable if she did for too long. Not only because that meant more assassins trying to kill her (not that it was a huge problem; she would eliminate them quickly and then receive their bounties. Though they were nowhere near the price on her own head, it was extra cash), but Ausiliatrice could never feel at peace enough to stay in one place for too long.

Perhaps this was a consequence of her childhood? No. It wasn't that.

It was freedom. Being able to move freely. This comforted Ausiliatrice, this quelled her, her core. This brought her _peace_.

Another reason she never stayed in Italy for so long, however, was far more political than what her soul wanted. Already, she had received invitations from numerous families, wanting her to join. But she was her mother's daughter.

At this time, she had no wish to be a part of a family. She was her own assassin, a mercenary for hire, and had no affiliations. With her name rising throughout the underground, this was strange for someone of her skill level.

Ausiliatrice was content with this for now, belonging to no one, and continued to turn down their invitations. And when those turned into demands? Well. Her reputation rose higher.

After all, she had grown up taking lives, and had no qualms with it now. Her mother taught her to kill mercilessly, and that was exactly what Ausiliatrice did. Mercilessly, yes, but without reason? No. Ausiliatrice wouldn't stand for that.

She stood for fairness. Honor. Perhaps this was a trait of her father's. And some day, she would find this out.

But for now?

She would fly. She would run. Shoot. Kill.

She would be alone. Her own person.

She would be free and unbound, for as long as she could.

* * *

"Hey, sis!"

Ausiliatrice came to an easy stop, moving her head slightly to look down at the child. He stopped, then held out his hand. Ausiliatrice threw the coin easily in the air, the money being snatched by the small hand of the child. She turned, kneeling down as the kid pocketed the money. He leaned over, and whispered into her ear.

"Two scary lookin' guys went in ya' window a while ago," he whispered urgently in Italian.

"Wearing uniforms?" Ausiliatrice asked.

"Ya'. Black ones. Looked pretty expensive. Not from around, ya' know?" Ausiliatrice nodded, then put more money into the child's hand, bills this time. He looked at them with wide eyes, a grin on spreading on his face.

"Thanks," Ausiliatrice drawled, waved a slight hand behind her as she turned to enter the ingress of the apartments, taking her time, making her way up to her current residence.

She had received some extra money anyways and so she had thought nothing of giving the child extra for the information. After all, this was a normal thing. After all, she knew what it was like to be like him. Like the other children she often saw on the streets.

If you want information, ask the rats. And if you want the rats to keep giving you information, feed them. She, after all, was a street rat herself. She knew how these cities worked.

She walked into her apartment without missing a step, flipping the light and barely even looking at the men waiting for her. She smoothly sat down across from them, and looked straight ahead, meeting the man's eyes in front of her. They had taken the liberty of moving a chair in front of the dingy couch, so that she would sit facing them. She had taken in their appearances immediately upon entering and had instantly recognized both the men, and their uniforms.

It was alarming enough that they were the Varia. But to have the Varia's boss and second command sitting in her apartment, waiting for her? She had been ready to retrieve her guns the moment she had clarified her intruders were wearing black uniforms.

She had known for a long time that she was being watched by them. She had seen the black uniforms in her own shadow, she had known they had been taking note of her assignments, her kills. And she had assumed they would approach her soon enough.

But to have the Sword Emperor himself sitting in front of her? It was surprising, to say the least. And it left her apprehensive. But naturally, she didn't let this show.

The leader of the Varia was a rugged man, both in aura and appearance. Despite being fully covered, Ausiliatrice could still she scars on both his neck and face. His sword was secured at his side, but was not drawn. That could easily change, of course, but Ausiliatrice knew that if they came here to kill her, conflict would have already started. Not to say that she believed she could win against him, but Ausiliatrice was not bowing down without a fight. She had noticed he only had one hand immediately, but thought nothing of it. She knew better than to underestimate him because of that. It was foolish to assume anything of that nature would hold someone back in this business, in their world. Those assumptions would only end in death.

And then there was his second in command. Ottabio. Standing on Tyr's right. A shrewd looking man, how he stood, the expression on his face, his aura. He looked as if he fought his battles with his tongue more than weapons or fists. Ausiliatrice decided that this man would annoy her more than anything. He was not a predator. Not as much as Tyr was. And so he was the one she focused on, meeting his eyes without hesitation.

There was a glint of recognition. And then a robust chuckle.

"I had to see for myself," Tyr admitted, his voice low and rough. Powerful.

"This is a bit unprecedented," Ottabio spoke smoothly, "and we usually don't approach potential recruits like this. But Boss insisted, and I will admit myself, your record is quite-"

"You know my father," Ausiliatrice interrupted, causing a brief flicker of irritation in Ottabio's expression. She could care less about him, completely focused on Tyr. She had understood his look as soon as he saw her eyes. And Tyr found himself staring at a reflection of a man he had stood before long ago.

He held up a single hand, stopping Ottabio before he could speak again. He then leaned back in his seat, as if becoming comfortable. With his one hand, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He held it one out and Ottabio quickly lit it for his boss, still seeming a bit annoyed but masking it rather impressively. Ausiliatrice waited patiently as Tyr let out a stream of smoke. He spoke.

"I was around when he was making a name for himself, you know," Tyr began, continuing their eye contact, as if testing to see if she would ever break it. "Was making it up through the Varia then. Told our boss that we should have got him before someone else did. Never did." Another stream of smoke. Tyr closed his eyes first, then almost lazily opened them again, recalling, remembering. And then projected those memories onto Ausiliatrice in the present, sitting right in front of him.

"You're making your name a lot like he did. Doing a lot of things like him. Haven't met him yet, right?" He knew without her answering. "Didn't think so. Bit surprised that you even knew you were his kid. Wanting to meet him yourself, huh? I get that," he shrugged, rolling his shoulders. He dropped his cigarette and stomped it out, crushing it entirely with his boot.

"Ottabio likes to run his mouth, but you're a straight forward woman," Tyr stated bluntly, leaning on his knees. Ottabio seemed a bit ruffled by his boss's words, but brushed it off, looking professional once more. They were dangerous men, after all. Elite.  _Varia Quality._ Ausiliatrice knew this. She knew what they were here for.

"You know our preposition," Tyr continued, "and you know the consequences. I'm not passing up another opportunity like this, and I would advise you to do the same." He rose, striding as he passed Ausiliatrice, Ottabio right behind him. Tyr paused, and turned his head to look back at her one last time.

"You have three days to decide."

And then they were gone. But luckily for Ausiliatrice, two days later, Try was defeated by a young swordsman. Ausiliatrice made a note to thank Surperbi Squalo for saving her the trouble of being hounded by the Varia.

The Second Sword Emperor.  _Interesting_.

But for now, Ausiliatrice would once again leave Italy. She was drawing too much attention here.

* * *

Surprisingly enough, Ausiliatrice met another acquaintance of not only her father's, but her mother's as well, just a few weeks after her encounter with the Varia.

Ausiliatrice shifted away as a man plopped himself down on the stool beside her at a bar in Spain. He was either very brave or very drunk, most of the people in the bar knowing well enough not to sit beside her, with Ausiliatrice having been in the town for a few days and her reputation already being beyond well known here. Even the bartender gave a coy look in their direction, witnessing this.

Both, Ausiliatrice decided, the man leaning closer. She could smell the alcohol on his breath as he swiveled to face her, a sultry smile on his face.

"What's a lovely woman such as yourself doing al-" He stopped immediately when he faced her fully, his eyes widening dramatically and his mouth hanging open. He looked over her once more and then turned quickly, taking a quick drink and then coughing. Ausiliatrice raised one smooth eyebrow and even almost moved to get up. She stopped however, when he spoke again.

"Esmeralda?" he stated then shook his head, "no, no. You have to be- of all people… they had a kid together?" He looked over at her again. Ausiliatrice stiffened. Drunk yes, but Ausiliatrice suddenly realized that this was no ordinary man. He was much more alert now. Possibly dangerous. But now, that he was this way, in this sense, Ausiliatrice barely recognized him, having seen his face before.

Trident Shamal. And he knew her parents. _Both_ of them.

By this point, he looked vaguely terrified of her.

"You knew my mother?" she asked placidly, taking another drink of her own beverage. Shamal ran a hand through his hair, and took a breath, recollecting himself.

"I apologize for that, miss," he stated, regaining his suaveness, "I was just surprised. You're a perfect mix of both of them, after all." Ausiliatrice was barely impressed that he had composed himself so quickly.

"Am I?" she breathed out, humoring him.

"You're not like your mother are?" he asked carefully, scrutinizing her reaction, then shaking his head, "No, your personality is more like Reborn. Has to be. Your mother…" he trailed off, paling slightly, "Well, she was terrifying." He shuddered slightly, as if recalling nightmarish memories. "About the only woman I wouldn't bother…" he trailed off looking over at her again.

"Nope," he decided, shaking his head slightly. "He would kill me. How's your old man, anyway?" he said with a slight smirk, obviously playing with this new information in his head, "I've only ran into him a few times since the curse after all…" Ausiliatrice perked up at this.

Naturally, she had heard of this 'curse'. But never any solid information.

"I wouldn't know," she informed him coolly. Shamal's expression fell.

"I see. He doesn't know, does he?" It was a careful question.

"No." Shamal then hummed.

"Interesting." He rolled his shoulders, then chuckled, "Esmeralda was always a shrewd woman after all. And where is she? Do you know?"

"Dead," Ausiliatrice stated, "most likely." Shamal frowned, scratching his chin.

"Shame."

He didn't give his condolences. Ausiliatrice didn't need them.

"Well," he stated, slamming his drink down again after finishing it, "the least I can do is buy my old friends' kid a drink, right?" He looked over at Ausiliatrice for her permission, to see her reaction. She inclined her head, and gave a slight nod, the edge of her lip barely twitching upwards.

"I suppose it is."

This was the first time Ausiliatrice had a drink with Shamal.

And yet, it wasn't the last.

* * *

"A word of advice," Shamal said to her once, "be careful with those eyes of yours. Anyone who knew him, especially those who knew him back then," she knew the time he was referring to; before the curse, whatever it was, "they'll recognize those eyes immediately. They'll know who you are."

Ausiliatrice took a controlled drink, the glass clinking softly as she lowered it.

"No." He raised an eyebrow and looked over at her. As always, she was the picture of calm and collection, but with a ferocity behind that wall of ice, a cold fire that warned others. Power. Danger.

"They'll see me as my own before they see him," she told him confidently.

"And if they don't?" he asked with a small smirk, knowing the answer. Her eyes shifted to him, sending a callous shiver down his spine.

" _Fuck_ them."

* * *

Xanxus stormed through the entrance of the club, pushing roughly passed the bouncer, who in turn attempted to grab the teenager's shoulder, only to shrink back after receiving a harsh look. The man backed off, pulling his hands away as if burned. Xanxus turned again, continuing. Superbi Squalo sighed and followed wordlessly, not even being bothered by the bouncer, who was still recovering from Xanxus's withering ook.

"What the _fuck_ ," Squalo growled, leaning close to talk to Xanxus over the loud music, pulling him roughly aside and away from the crowd of people mingling throughout the large room, "are you doing? Do you even have a plan?"

Xanxus seemed to be ignoring his companion, his red eyes still scanning over the room. Angry. Offended.

How _dare_ the old man not do anything?

The bastard had spat on the Vongola name, had tarnished it, stepped on it. And the old man did nothing about and had the audacity to tell Xanxus not to go after him. And so Xanxus tracked the fucker down, naturally, with Squalo right behind him.

His eyes fell on a woman standing on the second floor, looking over the crowd of people below. And he moved on.

Ausiliatrice however, took note of the youngest son of the Vongola and the Second Sword Emperor. Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head slightly.

 _Interesting_.

She hummed lightly and then continued walking. She had a job to do after all, but there was never any harm in giving kids some entertainment.

"Let's go," Xanxus said seeing a man go through a door to the back rooms and pulling Squalo along behind him. The other grumbled in return, wrenching his arm away, but following none the less, following always.

"You have a plan?" Squalo asked again, hushed, now in the back hallways of the club.

"Fuck the bastard up," Xanxus replied, eyes blazing. Squalo huffed and rolled his eyes, expecting no less from his boss. He stopped suddenly and shot forward, grabbing Xanxus's arm before he could enter another hallway. Xanxus looked back at him angrily, but paused, listening.

The sound of heels echoed through the corridors, intermingling with the sound of heavier footsteps. Carefully, curiously, Xanxus and Squalo looked around the corner, watching as a woman approached the man they had seen enter.

Vague recognition flashed through Squalo's eyes as he viewed her. She was tall, even without the aid of heels, easily looking the man in the eyes as she approached. Her long, dark and curly (wild) hair swayed as she walked, confidently, coolly. But what struck both of them was the aura she emitted. The aura any assassin, any fighter would recognize immediately. The aura that the man clearly missed.

"You lost or something?" he asked, eyes raking over her body. From their position, neither Squalo or Xanxus could see her face, but could tell that she titled her head from the movement of her hair. The man reached out to get a of hold her arm.

Squalo blinked, watching in awe as she grabbed his arm, pulling him forward and then promptly smashed his head into the wall. She let his body fall. Dead in one single moment, in one swift movement. She bent down, picking up the gun from the dead man's holster and inspected it. Satisfied, she moved on, blood on the knee of her pants, blood splattered on the walls, blood in her footsteps from the pool of blood now leaking from the corpse.

"Shit," Squalo breathed out, now knowing who that woman was, having seen her in the files he had looked through after killing the former boss of the Varia. He looked over to tell Xanxus, but stopped.

Xanxus's eyes were wide, excited _. Bloodthirsty_. He grinned and went forward, motioning for Squalo to follow.

Soon, they ran into more dead bodies. All having died by either smashed heads, broken necks, or broken spines. From what he could tell, there were no bullet wounds. Then again, now that they were away from the noise of the club, the loud music only a distant thrumming now, a gun shot would be terribly loud. And it would give the woman away in a moment, alerting others of her presence.

Xanxus's pace became faster the more bodies they passed, following her trail with interest.

Suddenly there was a gunshot. And then more.

A man entered, running out another hallway. He turned, seeing them, but fell forward with a bullet in the back of his head before he could even touch his gun. Xanxus's fingers tightened around his own weapon, having almost drawn it himself. Squalo stepped forward first, sword drawn and ready.

It was a large portion of the hallway, leading to double doors, lavishly decorated and presumably leading to an office. Xanxus entered behind him, just in time to see the woman from before cross her arms, making an x with them and shooting to either side of her. The two teenagers watched as the bullets deflected off the walls, ricocheting and then hitting the two men guarding the doors, killing them instantly.

Not even sparing the two shocked teenagers a glance, the woman stepped forward and calmly opened the double doors, titling her head to dodge a shot that whizzed past her ear. She dropped both the guns, and then moved her long hair, revealing two guns on her upper back. She retrieved them and stepped into the office.

Squalo raised his eyebrow, impressed with the feat she pulled. And those weren't even her own guns, he noted. He watched, letting Xanxus enter first, grin still plastered on his face.

The bastard was already on his knees, pleading and crying when Xanxus entered. He had his hands clutched together in prayer, staring up at the goddess before him with hopeful, yet already dead eyes.

She looked down at him disdainfully, and shot without blinking, without a flicker of remorse in her eyes.

Her eyes. For the first time, the woman turned and Xanxus saw them. Dark. Abyssal. And yet that wasn't what he was awed by.

When she looked at him, it wasn't just a woman, not a _human_ he saw:

She was a predator. He saw an avid huntress in her. He saw a lioness, prowling, and deciding whether or not it would be a challenge to kill him, then and there.

And it was that moment, Xanxus understood what he wanted. Seeing as she walked with savvy, killed with ease and suaveness, easily, viewing the power in her saunter and understanding the galaxies of strength behind that.

Xanxus wanted that for himself. He wished to be looked at like that man, now dead and staining the carpet beneath her feet, had looked up at her, fully aware that his life was in her hands. Playing God, and always winning.

She played with lives, with bullets and guns and won these little games with ease. With power, strength, controlled animosity.

And he wanted to be predator too. A lion in his own kingdom, as she was a lioness.

It wasn't her eyes that he noticed first, but the power behind it.

A power he had striven his whole life to achieve.

The woman's eyes scanned over him and Squalo with vague curiosity. And then she bent lowly, putting her arms out in a mock curtsy.

And in that moment both teens realized that it was all a _show_. She had left bread crumbs for them to follow, and they had been lead to the witch's lair all too easily. They had come here not of their accord, but hers. A show indeed, and she was taking her bow, snatching the roses thrown at her feet all too easily.

She returned, standing tall and then walked passed them, nodding at them as she did so. She paused however, when she reached Squalo.

"The Second Sword Emperor," she acknowledged, then with a nod, "Thanks." She moved on, leaving both the teens staring after her.

"The hell was that for?" Xanxus asked, looking over at his companion, angry, scathed (jealous?) that she would dare acknowledge his friend and not him. Squalo scowled and snapped back

"The fuck should I know?!"

Xanxus grumbled, putting his guns back into their holsters, not having realized he had drawn them. He looked, gazing after where she had exited.

This feeling she had left him with? It was similar to his first kill.

He doubted that he would forget this moment.

* * *

Ausiliatrice ignored their whispers as she put her gun together meticulously, these actions having always calmed her and brought her peace with their pacing.

She had never particularly liked assignments like these. But their employers felt them to be needed, despite Ausiliatrice being able to complete this task on her own. And yet here she was, waiting and listening to the other mercenaries whisper about her, critiquing her. Talking of her age, her looks, her body.

"They're only jealous." She looked over at him blankly, surprised that anyone would approach her with conversation.

Ah, she thought, it was _him_. The other odd one, hired to even the group out. The others had known each other and were already acquainted, hired in pairs, but Ausiliatrice and him…. they were the loners of the group.

Surprisingly, he looked to be young as well. Taller than Ausiliatrice. Large, muscular. With his choice of weapon, he needed to be. Wicked dual axes were strapped to his back. He smiled, his teeth flashing and standing out against his dark, velvet black skin. The skin under his eyes crinkled as he grinned and offered her a hand.

She didn't take it and instead rose from where she was kneeling, putting the gun she had been tinkering with back in its holster on her back and moving her hair to cover it once more.

"Hey, wait up, yeah?" he said, falling into step after jogging a bit to catch up with her long strides. His words had a thick accent to them, but his smile remained on his face.

"Ma-" he then stopped and corrected himself, "Meleager," he introduced, stepping in front of her, forcing her to stop as he held out his hand once again. "You've got a name?" Her expression remained neutral, until finally she sighed and stepped around him.

"Ausiliatrice."

Meleager clapped his hands together in triumph.

"She speaks!" he declared, considering this a victory. She steeled her expression and gave him an almost annoyed look. He simply grinned back at her, the skin under his eyes once again crinkling.

Although this was their first time meeting, their first exchange, their first job together, this wouldn't be the last time they would see each other.

And Ausiliatrice soon realized that Meleager was a far greater pestilence than she had originally thought.

But perhaps, this wasn't a bad thing.


	7. Her Mother Taught Her to Laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't love between them. Not yet. It was familiarity.

**Lesson 7:**

**Her Mother Taught Her to Laugh**

* * *

  _"It's pathetic, I knew I did from that first moment we met. It was… not love at first sight exactly, but – familiarity. Like: oh, hello, it's you. It's going to be you. Game over."_

**_-Mhairi McFarlane, You Had Me At Hello_ **

* * *

 

Ausiliatrice had found herself meeting Meleager more and more, and she was beginning to think it was not a coincidence. After the sixth job they had accomplished together, this was clear.

"Not to make you think I'm stalking you or anything, yeah?" he told her, casually walking across the large metal containers with his arms crossed behind his head, lax but ready to grip the stalks of his axes. "My employers just keep booking me on jobs with you."

His employers. He had mentioned them before. An agency he was a part of.

"Not a Family, though," he told her, retrieving his axe from the back of a corpse as he passed, stepping into the large storage unit, following Ausiliatrice. Talking, as usual. He liked to do that, but didn't seem to mind when she didn't return the favor. "It's different, yeah?"

And as always, she would either ignore him. And eventually, she would throw him a bone and nod in acknowledgement. And soon enough, he received a bouquet of flowers in the form of her slight hums. Improvement, on her part. An actual vocal exchange. Almost a conversation, a back and forth of him talking and her humming. Or nodding. Or she would give him a look.

And he wouldn't look away. She didn't know what unnerved her more; him pursuing her, or that fact that her eyes seemed to interest him more than unnerve.

Strange. But he was a strange one. And so was she, and isn't that just what made them strangers? And soon, she started not minding group jobs. Partner jobs. Because she found herself not minding being paired with him. And he continued talking while they continued killing, neither one of them batting an eye at the blood, the gore (because that was just part of their lives, a normal routine, these little assassin games).

And then he began asking to see her outside of jobs. And she would either ignore him, as usual, or divert, or just say no. But he was insistent, and happy (strange, strange, strange), and continued talking as always, because damn was he persistent on getting to know her.

And why?

Ausiliatrice couldn't fathom the answer. But she couldn't deny her curiosity to find out. And perhaps, maybe to know him better as well.

"You want to get some coffee some time? I know a great place, yeah?"

And he smiled at her, and the skin under his eyes crinkled. She liked to think that it was because he smiled so much.

A regular drink she could turn down. But Ausiliatrice had always been weak for a good cup of espresso.

* * *

 

"At this point, you should be the one paying me to work with you."

Meleager's eyes widened over the brim of his cup. He lowered it, placing it on the ledge next to him, giving her his large, usual flashing smile.

"She jokes!" he said, skin crinkling once more, pushed under his eyes thanks to his wide smile. "I was on the money about a dry sense of humor," he mused humorously, vaguely proud of himself. She took a sip of her own drink, looking out over the Parisian skyline. It was a calm night after another massacre. The blood was still bright on Meleager's axes, but the lights from the Eiffel Tower were brighter still.

"But, that's actually not too far from the truth…" he trailed off, smile dropping, almost guiltily.

Her eyes shifted, looking at him curiously from her side. He was quite the intriguing individual, she will admit. A killer one moment. And then smiling. And yet still kind. _Happy_. It was strange (and yet, they were no longer strangers, were they?).

"You're scouting me," she stated plainly, "for your agency."

"When did you know?" he once again had an easy smile, as if relieved. After all, he was not allusive and tended to be truthful about his ways. Too trusting, she thought. Not a good liar at all. Already, it was obvious that he had given her a false name. Or an alias, perhaps?

"Since our second job."

"Moscow?" She nodded, confirming. He made a small hum, picking up his beverage once more and taking a long drink. A pause. And then.

"My employers want to meet you. They think that we work well together and want to bring you in."

Ausiliatrice gave him a look. He held up his hands in defense.

"I know, I know," he chided, smiling lightly and shaking his head, "You aren't affiliated. And you don't want to be, yeah?" She didn't even have to look over at him to confirm this.

"But we're not a family," he reminded her, holding up a finger and wagging it along with his words for emphasis, as if rehearsing them, as if he had heard these words countless times before, "a collection of skilled individuals who amass to great potential."

"Collectors then," Ausiliatrice asked carefully, "your employers?"

"Of sorts," Meleager replied with a wry grin, "They get us the jobs, evaluate our skills. Give us some benefits. And when they need us to do a personal favor?"

"I see," Ausiliatrice hummed, musing, thinking.

For once, Ausiliatrice didn't know what to think of her new companion. Companion? Was that the right word for this person who seemed to be constant at her side now? She had never thought of him in that way.

A friend?

Those who killed together, she supposed. Who fought side by side, even if unintentionally. Companions.  _Friends_. These were unfamiliar concepts to her. But when she looked into his eyes now, when she looked over at him.

It was almost familiar.

She viewed his massive arms, watching his muscles ripple, even at the slightest movement, and was reminded of her companions of the wild, of the savanna. She saw the leopard she had laid beside, so close, so close, and had formed a bond with without a whisper of conversation.

And here was this person, human, pulling conversation from nothing. Wanting to talk to her? Genuinely?

She wasn't quite sure yet. But she was curious enough to find out.

"So, you up for it, yeah? Ausil?"

She snapped to face him, causing him to lean slightly back, the movement being quite sudden, violent, an outlier for the calm conversation. But he relaxed, if only a bit. It was more confusion than rage on her face; vague offense.

"What," she said, coldly, carefully, "did you call me." It wasn't a question. It was a statement, demanding, almost daring him to repeat the offense. He blinked, a pause, and then laughed. A warming sound that did nothing to change her expression.

"Oh, come on, yeah? I mean it's pretty, yeah, but your name is so long!" he complained lightly, now throwing his empty plastic cup repeatedly in the air, and catching it, an action he often performed with his weapons. "So I figured I'd just call you Ausil, yeah?"

Her eyes narrowed almost dangerously. And then she pointedly looked away, pushing herself up and briskly walking away from him, across the rooftop they had been perching on. He sighed, jokingly, loudly throwing his arms out in question before going after her.

"Oh, come on! Are you pouting, Ausil?" She turned suddenly and he found himself staring straight down into her abyssal eyes.

Ausiliatrice stumbled, having forgotten the words she had been ready to lash out.

He hadn't flinched when he met her eyes, so close, so close. And instead seemed mesmerized. There was a moment. And the two were alone in the city of Paris. Just the two of them and the lights of the tower. Dark brown eyes merging with impossibly darker black.

And in the next moment Ausiliatrice realized how close they had become. And that their faces were nearly touching and a sudden spike of uncomfortableness hit her. And she stepped back, turning away, crossing her arms.

Cold.

Meleager turned slightly as well, but never completely turned his back on her. He lifted a large hand, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. He opened his mouth, an apology on his tongue, but the words never made it to his lips.

"Ausiliatrice," she said, correcting him. "You'll call me Ausiliatrice."

And Meleager then smiled, and grinned, and the skin under his eye crinkled.

He had never been good at following directions.

* * *

 

She was no fool. No, Ausiliatrice was far from one.

Along with being able to speak and listen to the words of others from a young age, Esmeralda made sure that her daughter knew how to read. But she soon discovered the young girl didn't need much help on the matter, and mostly taught herself. And as a child, growing up, one comfort she had allowed herself, one luxury item that she had managed to always receive were books. Legends.

Fairy tales in particular, she enjoyed when she was younger. The true ones, the dark tales of misfortune and mistakes. But sometimes, they would get a happy ending. And for a time, she would become caught up in that delusion as well.

She recalled times where she had begun walking on that rugged road, and she would continue walking, away from the stilted house, and Rashida would watch her go and do nothing. Because Ausiliatrice would come back. Eventually, when her feet were tired, and she would turn her back on the sunset.

But sometimes, especially in the first few months, she would simply stop walking. She would sit down in the middle of that road, barely distinguishable, barely a line between vague civilization and wild. She would sit and look into the sunset and imagine her mother coming back. She would drive up, in a similar car that she had most likely killed a man for, and she would climb out and walk calmly to Ausiliatrice.

And then her mother would pick her up, for she was still small then and could still fit in her mother's arms, and hold her close without saying a word (because those two, together, never did need to say much), and Ausiliatrice would press her ear into her mother's chest.

And she would listen to her mother's heart beat one last time.

And that would be their happy ending, because that's where their story would end. No matter what happened after. End of book, blanks pages after and then? The back cover.

But Ausiliatrice soon outgrew this day dream as she had outgrown the fairy tales. And by that time, she had grown tired of happy endings, despite the trials it took to reach that point. And so she turned her interest to legends, mythology, particularly, Greek and Roman after receiving a large leather bound book from Rashida about it.

(particularly, legends untouched by the view of another belief, another culture un-Christianized, unbaptized, true to its history where the matriarch was intact, before Artemis was simply a Madonna and Aphrodite merely a whore)

And through these she learned that gods made mistakes. That heroes could be awful. Atrocious. They killed, raped, and plundered. They were all human, even the heavenly beings of these stories. These lessons were of pride and arrogance. Of strength and gore. These were things she could relate to, that she had experienced.

Ausiliatrice was far from a fool. And she had recognized Meleager's name the moment he said it.

Meleager, a hero and host of the Caledonian boar hunt. His life was tied to a burning piece of wood, and once that was set to fire? Meleager died.

There were other details of course. He had fallen in love with another hero, and had defended her honor, killing his own family to do so. And then was in turn killed by his own mother. Atalanta, Ausiliatrice had believed, was the hero's name, the woman who Meleager had fallen in love with. Details, details. She had an interesting tale as well, but didn't they all?

All heroes, all warriors. Those born to fight. To kill. And perhaps this is what brought them together, what bonded them.

Perhaps this was why she was following Meleager now, at this moment.

They weaved through the crowded streets and occasionally Meleager would look back at her, and smile brightly. As if excited. Ausiliatrice found herself vaguely amused by his actions. Almost endearing.

"Stay close," he turned to her, looking her in the eyes, and only lightly encasing his hand around her wrist after receiving a nod of consent. He nodded to the large bouncer as they passed the long line of people and entered a large, clean and modern club. Ausiliatrice's eyes adjusted quickly to the rapid changes in lighting and they weaved through more people, loud music thrumming through their body, aligning and coursing through their blood streams creating a rapid and sporadic heartbeat, but a heartbeat none the less.

Meleager let go for a moment and shot forward, grabbing the shoulder of a tall, slim man. A rough clap on the back from Meleager nearly sent the poor man stumbling forward, but it seemed to be a happy exchange as they both laughed. Meleager leaned, yelling something in the man's ear before both eyes turned to Ausiliatrice.

A small expression of 'ah'. And the man was gone, moving at an incredible speed through the crowd.

"Hermes," Meleager explained, then indicated with his head to one of the stair cases, leading to the second level. "We wait up there, yeah?"

Meleager, Ausiliatrice noted, seemed to be well-liked here. Well known. He exchanged many smiles and rough physical greetings, even from the most hostile, reserved people they passed.

Assassins. Mercenaries. Dealers of all kinds and sorts. Ausiliatrice could see this easily with nearly everyone they passed.

This was a place of business, despite its chrome exterior. Ausiliatrice knew these types well. But this was a very watched place, and everyone knew it. There would be no conflict here; there were too many people on one side.

But whose side was that?

Meleager held the door open to a private room and Ausiliatrice entered first. The difference in volume was deafening, the sudden silence abrasive. Ausiliatrice turned to face the glass, seeing those on the outside. She pressed her fingers to it, hearing the distant hum of music and then feeling it's vibration against the glass.

Meleager came to stand beside her.

"It's different, yeah?" He asked, looking down, "seeing from up here."

And it was.

She turned her head, looking at a side door as the man, Hermes, appeared.

"Already?" Meleager asked, surprised and crossing his arms behind his head. An uncomfortable look passed on Hermes face.

"Zeus wants to meet her." Meleager's face turned to almost disgust, surprising Ausiliatrice. This was perhaps the first negative emotion she had seen on his features.

"You're kidding, yeah? I thought I said not to tell him?" He let his arms fall, and then took one large hand to rub his face. "Whatever," he grumbled dismissively, and then gestured heavily to Hermes. "Let's just go."

Ausiliatrice remained silent, watching this exchange. Hermes gave her an almost apologetic look before turning and going back through the side door her had popped out of. And they followed.

"Listen, sorry," Meleager began, walking backwards as they followed Hermes through the hallway, a new thrumming of music replacing the old, "I didn't want you to meet him. I mean, yeah, he's technically the boss, but he doesn't do-"

"Meleager." Meleager turned his head to smile brightly at Hermes. A brash, fake, brilliant display of teeth.

"-shit," he finished boldly, "No use bullshitting, yeah?" Hermes sighed, but didn't disagree. Meleager turned his head back to Ausiliatrice. "So yeah, he's a disgusting bastard. But he pays the bills. It's Hera that y-"

He stopped, Hermes having reached a large door, decorated in gold accents. Already, Ausiliatrice could hear the mingle of music and human noises. Giggling. Moans. Some screams of pleasure. Ausiliatrice's expression didn't change as they walked in, seeing a large bed in between two large, grand staircases, sloping elegantly, and the room crowned by a cold, intricate chandelier. The bed however, was very occupied.

Naked women were draped over the man, placed at the center of the bed, exhausted and intermingled, tangled in each other's bodies, still breathing hard and radiating with pleasure. He, himself, was still stroking and enjoying their bodies, and only looked up after Hermes had coughed into his hand. He smiled brightly, and clambered out of the bed, not even bothering to cover himself as he stood.

Confident. No, it was brash _cockiness_ in which he held himself. Ausiliatrice supposed she could see why others would find him attractive, sure, but there was nothing about this man that charmed her. He was weak, the kind of man who expect others to work for him. And his eyes went to her immediately, despite Meleager standing almost protectively in front of her, on edge, but faking casualness, arms crossed, but still ready to grip his axes.

"You want to…?" Hermes gestured down with his hands, and looked pointedly away from the man's naked body. He laughed robustly, never taking his eyes off Ausiliatrice, taking in every detail and thirsting after it, only moving away from her face when traveling down her body.

"You know I have no shame, Hermes," he said, indicating with his head, but still undressing the woman in front of him with his eyes. Ausiliatrice kept looking straight ahead, not willing to bow down, to give him power and show him her uncomfortableness. Meleager laughed, brilliantly and fake and boldly stepped right between the two, forcing the man to look at him.

"Long time no see, yeah, Zeus?" Meleager said crossing his arms, flexing his large muscles, rippling and warning, "I see you've been busy, yeah?" He indicated towards the bed, where the women were more alert now, either giggling or hiding their bodies now that they were more aware of other people in the room. Zeus frowned momentarily, irritation flashing through his eyes before he once again smiled.

"You know me," he said with a causal roll of his shoulders, "I get around. But your _friend_ ," He leaned to the side, then moved past Meleager, who barely jerked in retaliation, but stayed where he was, only turning his head to watch this exchange.

"I don't believe," Zeus murmured, grabbing Ausiliatrice's hand, causing her to go rigid, willing herself not to grab her guns, "we've met yet."

He kissed it softly, lingering, taking in the scent of her skin, and then parted with it, eyes traveled from her pelvis, to her breasts, then her lips, and lingered there as well. And then, he had reached her eyes and flinched, a momentary reflex, and his eyes went to her hair. A coward after all, not willing to face what unnerved him.

"I would remember," he continued, his hand going to gently stroke a large strand of her wild hair, "such a beautiful face." Meleager saw what was going to happen, and turned his head smirking lightly, knowingly. Zeus cried out in pain as Ausiliatrice's hand nearly crushed his wrist, causing her hair to slip form his fingers, and fall back into place, fanning over her shoulder and cascading down.

Ausilaitrice's eyes flickered over to Hermes, whose determination wavered along with the gun he had trained at her.

"She'll shoot you long before you pull the trigger, my man," Meleager hummed, turning and once again folding his arms comfortably behind his head, smiling, enjoying the pain on Zeus's face. He, Ausiliatrice noted, seemed to find this situation rather enjoyable. Zeus wavered, crumpling in pain and shaking, knowing not to say anything else, not to anger her more, knowing full well that she could shatter his wrist with one quick squeeze.

"Honestly," a placid voice wafted from the stairs, followed by the clinking of heels, "you should know not to touch people without their consent." Ausiliatrice's eyes snapped to the top of the left stair case.

A woman a stood regally. She looked down at them with indifferent eyes, and yet calculating, inspecting. As she continued walking down the stairs, the train of her dress followed, cascading, and upon further inspection looked like a large peacock feather, the pattern mimicking the animal perfectly. She wore long sleeves as well, but her dress was short in the front and a deep teal color. Her skin was olive-toned, and her hair was cut short and straight, shorter in the back and then angling as it near the front, with bangs covering her forehead, cut in a straight line. Dyed a dark, vivid blue.

"As amusing as this is," she spoke again, eyes on Ausiliatrice and stirring with thought, gauging potential. A collector. "I would appreciate it if you did not hurt my husband too badly." And Ausiliatrice released Zeus, who fell to the ground with a large sigh of relief, holding his injured wrist. The woman quirked her head, a sliver of a smirk tugging at her lips.

"Hermes," she addressed, "you're dismissed." She then looked at Ausiliatrice and Meleager, holding up a hand and then putting a single, elegant finger out, gesturing for them to follow.

And they did.

Ausiliatrice took note at the almost disdainful look the woman gave both her husband and the women on the bed; a look of loathing and jealously. And then it was masked as she fully turned and continued up the stairs. Meleager flashed a grin and wriggled his eyebrows before following. Ausiliatrice sent one last look at Zeus, who whithered, looking away. Lesson learned indeed.

"I apologize for my husband's actions," the woman said upon entering a large room located behind the doors at the top of the steps, "he's not used to not receiving what he wants." There was a cold humor lacing her words.

Ausiliatrice noted the other occupant of the room. A large, built woman, completely covered, only her eyes remained seen in the small opening of her niqab. Meleager approached the woman, hand raised to receive a high-five.

"Argus, long time no see, yeah?" Argus simple looked at Meleager, unimpressed and unmoved. She retained her position, standing strong and arms folded behind her back. Meleager laughed, finally lowering his hand. "One day, Argus, one day," he promised, laughing before he plopped down on the couch, facing throne-looking pair of chairs. After being prompted by Meleager's pat, Ausiliatrice sat beside him as well, keeping her distance as usual.

The woman from before sat down in one of the chairs, back straight and head held high. A queen. Someone Ausiliatrice felt that she could come to respect. But respect had to be earned. Both Ausiliatrice and the woman knew this.

"I am Hera," she introduced, "and welcome to Olympus. You know Meleager well," she nodded softly in his direction, "and to my right, stands my body guard, Argus. My husband, Zeus," she said with the small sliver of resentment, "you have had the pleasure of meeting as well. And Hermes, of course."

"Aliases, I presume," Ausiliatrice stated.

"Naturally," Hera agreed, "and I'm guessing you knew that Meleager was not his true name the moment you met him." Meleager took on an offended front.

"You hurt me," he said, faking a sniff and turning his head away. Ausiliatrice ignored his usual antics.

"You're wondering what we are," Hera started suddenly, understanding that Ausiliatrice would appreciate no less, "and rest assured that we're no family. We're a business; an agency if you will. We see potential and we seek them out, receiving jobs and then passing those jobs to them. We recognize skilled individuals who amass to great potentials, and then help them reach that." Meleager moved his fingers in the air with the words, as if orchestrating them. Hera ignored this and continued.

"You're wondering what we get out of this? It's simply, really. Of course, for being your agents, we get a small percentage, but we also supply you with benefits; weapons, transportation fees, and we try out best to assign partners who work well together. Which, is why we were interested in you in the first place." Hera's eyes met Ausiliatrice's. And although there was a small spurt of apprehension and wariness, there was also acknowledgement of power.

Perhaps Hera wasn't dangerous in the typical sense. But she could pick people apart with one look. With those eyes, Hera unraveled people in seconds, revealing them in moments. And in that same moment, she saw all their potential, and then used this information to her advantage. She was a people person, and this was a dangerous thing.

"Meleager," she said suddenly, interrupting their evaluation of the other, "go fetch us drinks. Wine." Meleager opened his mouth, but shut it promptly after receiving another look from Hera. He sighed, then smiled again, sending a wink of goodbye to Ausiliatrice before exiting. And that was when the true negotiations began.

"Meleager's orders were to scout you, but my true intentions were to test your compatibility," Hera explained, crossing her ankles elegantly and propping a single arm and holding her chin up stylishly. "He has the potential to be a leader. You noticed this."

And Ausiliatrice had, with the way he approached people, how he talked to them, how he made them feel at ease with him around.

"But, he needs someone else to complete him. To help him learn. He's too trusting, and that will get him killed. And wouldn't that," she said with a callous smirk, "be a shame."

"You help people to the top and then profit from it," Ausiliatrice stated, crossing her leg over her knee and leaning back casually; holding power in the conversation, always having power.

"It's quite beneficial," Hera admitted, "and we even have some former heroes of Olympus in the inner circles of the most powerful families. My husband may have funded this organization, but have no doubt; I'm the one who pulls the strings. I choose the players in the game. And I've been considering you for a long time, Ausiliatrice. You have potential that I want. But only a fool would try to control a woman such as yourself. There are no obligations, and you are free to cut ties with us at any time."

"I've received offers before," Ausiliatrice stated coldly.

"Ah, but this one is different," Hera rebutted, "this offer includes your freedom. I only ask that my heroes do a few favors from time to time. Protect the agency, of course. And eventually, loyalty is built without us having to raise a hand. Comradeship. You want that, don't you?"

_Ah_. Ausiliatrice had underestimated how good Hera was at reading people. For that moment, Ausiliatrice considered it. And that was all Hera needed.

"Meleager," she welcomed coolly as he reentered the room, "I see you've brought celebratory drinks."

"Celebratory?" He perked up, looking to Ausiliatrice after handing the wine to Argus. He smiled widely as Argus filled a glass for her boss. "Does that mean…?" Ausiliatrice took the glass offered to her, not bothering to nod in confirmation. Hera raised her glass, looking Ausiliatrice in the eyes confidently.

"Welcome to Olympus, Atalanta."

* * *

"So, since you're a hero of Olympus, I was thinking, yeah? That you should know my actual name."

He held his hand out, as if he were meeting her for the first time.

"Mateus. My name is Mateus."

And she took it.

* * *

They had fallen into routine all too easily. Of course, they fit together rather well, being opposites; different pieces of a puzzle (no two matching pieces fit with another, after all, and opposites fit rather well). Not only physically, but stylistically as well with both weapons and methods.

They complemented each other well and soon came to realize this. He talked often and she was content with listening. And this was how they worked. This relationship was visible between them, and it was obvious not to approach them, to challenge them, seeing the easiness in which they killed together, walked together, how they entered the room and were immediately noted; predators in perfect sync.

"Why did you approach me?" she asked once night, sitting on the couch and looking out the window of the hotel room, not even having to look over at him. He was well aware of that she wasn't just referring to his orders to scout her. He was well aware she was referring to the night they first met.

"You're interesting," he said plainly, with a roll of his shoulders, "and I want to know interesting people. I wanted to know you."

"Why?" He looked over at her with an easy smile. The skin under his eyes crinkled, so familiar now, a trait that she had grown fond of.

"Do I need a reason?" He approached her, an accusingly, but playful look on his face, "You're too paranoid, Ausil-"

"-liatrice," she finished for him, frowning, disapproving of the nickname he always used for her. His grin only widened, fully aware of his usual slip up. Mateus jumped over the back of the couch, landing on his knees and sitting, facing her and leaning forward.

"You," she stated, lifting her hand placidly, and pushing his chest back, "are far too trusting."

"And you don't trust enough," he dashed back, teeth flashing brightly against his dark face. He went back into a squat, balancing until he placed himself on the arm of the couch. Ausiliatrice remained still, stoic in her relaxed fixation, her knees bent comfortably and her own back propped against the opposing arm rest. They remained, him lovingly, looking into each other's eyes. And yet

It wasn't love between them. Not yet. It was familiarity. It was acknowledging the other being in the room, and giving a slight nod of yes, I could see myself spending the rest of my life with this person.

Understanding.

Comfort.

But did she even know what love was?

"We," he said slowly, "complete each other." Her look shifted to unimpressed.

"Oh come on, Ausil-"

"-liatrice."

"There are clichés for a reason," he pointed out, pivoting on his perch, and plopping down on the couch with her, sending a look of question and only touching her legs after a nod of consent, raising them and sliding under, before finally leaning forward with crossed arms, resting on them.

"We," he continued, moving two fingers along her legs, mimicking a person walking, "complete each other; almost perfectly. If,” he added, an afterthought, “that even exists."

Because they both knew that it didn't.

"You say I'm too trusting, you are shit at trusting-" He earned a disapproving look "- and I know you have good reason for it." Her eyes softened, knowing that he had picked up on this easily without her even having to explain. Appreciating the space he had given her, and appreciating that he had never pried into her past.

"And that's why you respect me, yeah?" he said out loud for her sake. "I can read you easy, and you can tell everything about me at any moment by watching me move. I am your voice," he said, ceasing the walking, and instead simply resting his hand on her leg, warmth against warmth, "and you are my strength."

"You don't need my strength."

"I do," he corrected her, "more than you think."

"No," she corrected again, thinking of how easy he was around people, how they rotated around him, revolved like he was the sun in the center of a galaxy. And she was simply a moon, reflecting his impressive light.

"Fine," he said, leaning back with a happy, sloppy smile, knowing with amusement that he could never argue with her and win once she had decided, "then we are each other's strength. You can settle on that, yeah?"

She blew air out her nose, and looked away once more, out the window and to the expansive blue sky, clouds lingering on the horizon; present, but not overtaking it. Respecting each other's boundaries.

She answered his question with silence, not having to say yes.

* * *

Ausiliatrice's eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed together. Mateus raised one eyebrow, recognizing that she was annoyed instantly.

"This is Hecate," Hera introduced, gesturing to the small woman on her left, with Argus on right as always, "our most skilled illusionist. But," she said with a small quirk of her lips, "I see that you've already recognized that you are caught in an illusion."

Hecate titled her head and smiled brilliantly, cheekily. Ausiliatrice blinked her eyes rapidly, then tried stepping forward, only to nearly fall into Mateus, the illusion damaging her sense of balance.

"I was right to assume that you were inexperienced to illusions," Hera said, walking past them and moving to exit the room, "And so, I'll leave you to your lessons." Argus nodded at them, and then followed her boss. Ausiliatrice scowled and pushed away from Mateus, standing on her own once more.

Hecate was small woman, tiny in fact. Incredibly pale and incredibly blonde. But despite her small stature, she walked with confidence and moxie. Playfulness. Upon closer inspection, she was far older than she looked, but had the habit of hiding her wrinkles and other signs of aging with small illusions. She carried a lace umbrella with her as well, with a sharp, thin blade hidden at the top, covered in poison, just in case someone got passed her formidable illusions.

She was mute as well, but this did nothing to stop Ausiliatrice from communicating with the illusionist.

"You know sign language?" Mateus asked, surprised. Ausiliatrice gave him annoyed look. "Right, right," he said, holding up his arm, "I shouldn't be surprised, yeah." And then she continued her conversation with Hecate.

After all, they had a trade off; Hecate helped Ausiliatrice with seeing through illusions and Ausiliatrice helped Hecate with hand to hand and utilizing her weapons. Both needed work in the other's area of expertise after all.

Ausiliatrice soon found that she hated illusions. But this, like all the other trials of her life, was something she could overcome.

But not easily; never easily. Was anything in her life easy?

However, she had been corrected later when Mateus had approached her, apologizing; knowing she had a head ache but wanting Ausiliatrice to teach him sign language. And as she helped him, it becoming easier for her to touch his hands in order to correct him, she had an epiphany, a thought while looking at him.

Some things were easy for her after all. And for once in her life, she had genuine hope that it would remain this way for a while.

She was content.

* * *

Superbi Squalo recognized the woman instantly (but he doubted he could ever really forget someone like that). She jumped down, landing with quiet feet and shot the men on both sides of her with pristine accuracy. Squalo tensed, sword raised, watching her. Waiting.

She carried animosity like wings on her shoulder, but molded them with precision, keeping this power beneath her skin in check. If only his boss was here, once again coming across the person who had inspired him, sparked his flame and had unknowingly lit his passion for power. Lussuria stalled as he came to a stop behind him, immediately picking up on the tension, immediately knowing the girl was dangerous.

A body toppled over the railings above her, where she had jumped down from before. The body hit the ground with a sickening thump beside her, but her unnerving, strong, powerful eyes remained on Squalo. A large, burly, dark-skinned man landed loudly beside her, and then moved to the corpse, pulling an axe from where it had been embedded into its back.

"Well fuck," he said, scratching the back of his head and looking over at the two. "Varia? You know them, yeah?" he asked, looking over at the woman. She didn't answer, and he shrugged, looking back at Squalo and Lussuria.

"We going to have a problem?" It was a threat said with a smile. A brilliant baring of teeth; a warning. Squalo narrowed his eyes.

"You going this way?" he asked gruffly, pointing behind him.

"Yeah," Mateus answered, then made the same gesture, pointing up with his thumb, "you going this way, yeah?" Squalo nodded. Mateus grinned, far more naturally this time, relieved, "Then we shouldn't have a problem."

They had different missions after all, and were smart enough to realize they weren't after the same thing. This exchange wouldn't end in a fight. At least, not this time. Lucky for both parties.

Ausiliatrice began walking forward at a causal pace, passing both Squalo and Lussuria with ease. Squalo nearly hesitated, then turned suddenly to address her.

"Hey!" She stopped, then barely turned her head, meeting his own eyes with her abyssal ones.

A thought flashed through her head of how young he was. But she was young too, wasn't she? Too young, both of them.

"Why the hell did you thank me, huh?" he asked her. Her lips barely tugged upwards; amusement.

"You saved me a lot of trouble," she answered simply with a small shrug of her shoulders. Then, she motioned once with her head, and Mateus blinked, and began to leave as well, giving the two a small salute and another grin before the couple left together. Squalo frowned, her answer not explaining much. But had he expected much of an answer in the first place?

"You know her, Squalo?" Lussuria asked, looking away from admiring the man, and once again thinking of the woman.

Superbi Squalo turned on his heel, once again thinking of their mission; the woman only an afterthought, a constant memory embedded in his head.

"No."

* * *

 

He hadn't realized how close they had gotten, until he looked down one day, and saw that she had her head resting on his shoulder.

She had fallen asleep next to him, completely at ease. Safe. Comfortable in his presence.

She had felt safe enough to let her guard down around him, completely. Enough for her to sleep, to rest.

The ultimate sign of her trust.

* * *

Ausiliatrice repositioned her fingers, readying them on the trigger of her sniper rifle.

"Atalanta is ready," Mateus stated, finger on his ear pierce, and moving the curtain slightly from where he was standing to the side of the window beside her own. "Hecate, do your thing, yeah? Hercules? Go."

Ausiliatrice would be lying is she said she wasn't proud of him. This was the first group mission where she hadn't been standing at his side, giving him advice on positions and where to place the pieces. This was his first time he was leading without her lips murmuring into his ear. And from the looks of things, he was doing a wonderful job.

Aside from complaining, of course. He was a man of action, and watching from above never aligned with him. But it did make for good entertainment for Ausiliatrice.

"Calm down," she told him, picking off stragglers who managed to get away from Hercules, who they both knew was mercilessly hacking away and shredding his opponents into chunks with the massive sword he wielded with ease. Hecate sat causally, across the street from the building, upholding the illusion around it with ease. Mateus, however, continued his pacing, his bouncing.

"You know I can't," he nearly groaned, slowly pivoting, and then once again peeking out the curtain, watching as Ausiliatrice killed another man effortlessly. "I'm just not used to this, yeah? I can't just watch like _this_ ," he complained, sighing and grabbing an axe, repeatedly throwing it in the air and then catching it again. Throwing and catching, throwing and catching.

One of his ticks, she knew; what he did when anxious, or excited, or nervous. They noticed so many things about each other now. For instance, his small habit of using 'yeah' as a filler, no matter what language. It blended beautifully though, a small personality trait that she had grown used to, grown familiar with. The crinkle of his skin, excess pushed to his eyes when he smiled.

He had noticed things about her, naturally. How she titled her head when intrigued or amused. How she immediately took note of how many people were in the room, how she could escape if needed, already planning before an attack even happened. Always on edge, always ready to defend, to _kill_. She counted, people, opportunities, bullets; she was talented in that area, and always made careful notes of her guns and bullets, along with her opponents'. Untrustful, maybe, but completely closed off?

No. It just took someone willing to try. Willing to wait (because they were used to waiting, they were good at it).

An understanding was evident between the two.

Familiarity.

Perhaps even love? But ah, did they even know what that was?

"Hey," she looked over at him, having counted the correct number, knowing that they had succeeded in their mission (a favor for Hera, dismissing a possible threat to Olympus). She stood, shouldering her weapons and then slowly, hesitantly, put her hand on his cheek. He leaned into it, and then after a look of question and a nod of yes from her, he brought his own hand up to cover hers.

"Can I?" he asked, a whisper after a few moments of blissful silence, the small contact having calmed him greatly. She hesitated, then nodded. He then moved her hand to his lips, and kissed it softly.

"Thanks," he breathed out, warm breath against the skin of her hand as he gently traced circles with his fingertips.

"We get a break after this," she told him, watching his movements, but content. Calmed. He let out a breath of laughter. Relief.

"Yeah," he said, titling his head and then nodding again. Skin crinkling. Grinning. "A well-deserved break, yeah?"

* * *

 

She had become distracted. Stalled. But was this necessarily a bad thing?

She glanced away from her book and glanced down, her hand slowing in its movements, softly stroking his short, textured hair. She watched his nose flare softly and his mouth slightly gape, and his eyebrows knit lightly in vague concentration.

Peaceful. As peaceful as their life could be, this is how it was for the moment.

In the year since she had first met Mateus, she had no longer kept her ear as close to the ground when it came to listening for her father. Before, that had been all she really cared about; a senseless mission and after that?

She gazed at Mateus once more, stopping her movements completely. She lifted her hand, kissing her finger tips, and then pressed them softly on his forehead.

For now, this would do. Peace would do, because as of now, this was what she wanted in life. Her father could wait, she decided, while she still had herself and Mateus alone; just the two of them at peace together.

This was her love, and it would do for now.

* * *

It was small apartment, made for just two people. A perk of being a Hero of Olympus; expenses being paid for, places to stay being gifted. And the two were content with staying together, sharing this break together. Partners, now, in both aspects. They had come to accept this, without having to clarify for neither needed clarification. Just the other's presence was enough.

Ausiliatrice watched daintily as he played with the radio, turning the knob, his face scrunched in thought, concentration. It was endearing, really. Cute. She breathed out her nose in amusement then went back to chopping, barely glancing over at his small whoop of triumph. She closed her eyes momentarily, letting the soft, gentle music waft over from the small radio to her ears.

It was nice, she realized in that moment, this life.

She kept her eyes closed, but kept tabs on Mateus as he walked behind the counter, into the kitchen once more. She stiffened slightly, knowing he was behind her, and wondered briefly, frowning, if he was going to touch her without asking permission.

"Sun?" he asked, still a safe distance away, a comfortable distance. Her eyes opened and she turned her head slightly in question, confused. He blinked innocently back at her, arms open, inviting.

"Sun?" he repeated again, flashing his usual, mischievous smile. She looked him over once more, raising a single eyebrow.

"What are you doing?" His mouth quirked further, as it always did when he managed to get her to talk.

"I was thinking," he began, but was interrupted.

"How ambitious of you." He titled his head up, further amused by her jab but continued as if she had remained silent.

"That we should have a safe word."

"A safe word?" she said, her expression unamused as she turned completely to him, crossing her arms.

"Yeah," he said, nodding once, "because sometimes it takes a while to ask, you know? To touch you," he elaborated, "and it will be a lot quicker for you to say no, too. I'll say sun, and if you want me to touch you, you finish with flower." She titled her head, then allowed a small smile.

"Sunflower?" she repeated, as if testing it. He hummed happily, dipping his head slowly and bringing it back up.

"Yeah, makes it easier, yeah?" She laughed, causing his eyes to light up, and his smile to widen, wrinkling, crinkling the skin under his eyes as it always did, as she always noticed.

"Sun?" he asked again. She hummed, and put a finger on her cheek, leaning back as if in thought.

"Flower," she allowed.

He approached her, slipping his arms around her waist, watching her reaction the whole time, careful, so careful not to upset her, to over step, ready to stop if she should want to at any time. He began swaying his body, and in turn hers, and when she slipped her arms and embraced him as well,

he began stepping, and turning, and stepping and turning, until they were out of the kitchen and in front of the counter, and they swayed and stepped, dancing into the small living room. He turned her carefully, and swayed again, and it became faster, much more fun and he smiled again and laughed,

and she couldn't help but laugh as well as he spun her again, this time, sending her hair whipping around her, and she stumbled a bit as she returned to him, but he caught her, like he always did, and paused, and said,

"Sun?"

"Flower."

And he picked her up completely, and spun himself into circles, into circles, and set her down again,

and she laughed, growing louder and more beautiful, her cheeks slightly flushed, and happy, so happy, and _joyous_.

"You're not even going with the music!" she accused, pushing his chest as they quelled into more of a sway once more.

"Do we ever?"

Intertwining his arms and resting them on the small of her back. She hummed happily, contently, and he did the same, and then surprised him by leaning forward and resting her head on his chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, and listened. Enjoying the sound of his strong, strong heartbeat. She could feel his fingers playing lightly with her long hair.

A third home.

She had found it.

She looked up at him, lifting her head and separating it from his chest slowly. Her lips parted, as if wanting to say something, but she hesitated. She paused. And then changed her statement to a question.

"Is this what it feels like to love someone?" she asked quietly. He blinked slowly down at her, thinking deeply of this question.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know," she said honestly, raw. She laid her head back on her chest and initiated the sway again, having ceased their movements when she started the new conversation.

"Have you fallen in love before?" she asked quietly, murmuring into his chest.

"Yes," he admitted, just as soundlessly, leaning forward a bit to place his chin on the top of her head, “Maybe.”

"And is it the same as this?"

"No," he said, leaning down and whispering his words into her hair, "it's always different."

"Is this…." she started, thinking, doubting, "too different?"

"Yeah," he said, causing her to look up, but before betrayal could reach her eyes, he finished, "but different… in a good way. Good different." She blinked, then titled her head, gazing at his face, taking in his features as if he would die right there in her arms.

"Do you love me?" he asked this time.

"I don't know yet."

"That's okay," he said, seriously, patiently, "that's fine." She looked down, staring at his chest, thinking of his heart beat once more.

"Thank you," she said honestly, then quieter, "Thank you."

There was a pause, where only the soft music of the radio was playing.

"Sun?"

"Flower."

And he kissed her tenderly on the forehead.

 


	8. Her Mother Taught Her to Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loved her, so much. But this was a realization that he had come to long ago.

**Lesson 8:**

**Her Mother Taught Her to Burn**

* * *

 

She shot the man behind him in the forehead, and moments later, she ducked, Mateus sending one of his axes flying, decapitating the man who was behind her in turn.

"So, the next assignment," he said, walking causally to retrieve his axe as she quickly and efficiently reloaded her gun, "it's in Panama, yeah?" She hummed in acknowledgement, moving deeper into the base.

"You want to go somewhere after, "she stated, continuing the conversation while watching the information download on the flash dive there were given. He tossed his axe in the air, still fresh and flicking blood, crisp from the corpses beneath his feet.

"I mean, we have time to, yeah?" He was rambling, she noticed, and skirting around what he wanted to say. "So we can, if we wanted to, stop and stay, yeah, I mean i-" He stopped immediately and smiled apologetically after receiving a sharp look from her.

"I want to take you to my home," he said, looking to the side with a light, nervous smile (but endearing, genuine, like everything else he did), and rubbing the back of his head, "I want to take you home with me, Ausil."

There was a moment, and then:

"Ausiliatrice."

And she didn't have to tell him yes.

* * *

Ausiliatrice's eyes scanned the murky water as Mateus moved the boat further down the river, watching intently, surveying both the waters around him and the heavily forested banks.

She found herself enjoying this place as well, but wasn't she just drawn to wild places? Apart from civilization. Separate and alone. Although, the humidity, she could live without. She sighed and rose from where she had been leaning crossed arms on the side of the boat and proceeded to manhandle her mass of hair, eventually managing to put it back and tie it in a ponytail away from her face. Mateus snorted, glancing back, amused by the annoyed expression she shot at him.

"Almost there," he muttered, his attitude brightening, a grin spreading. Ausiliatrice perked up as well, in her subtle way of course. She listened harder, attuned herself more the thrum of the forest; the heartbeat. It was similar to his, she realized with a small tug of her lips, her eyes lingering over and taking in his form. His body was tensed in apprehension, excitement; he hadn't come home in a while and had told her of his happiness to do so numerous times on the trip to South America. There was apprehension as well, but Ausiliatrice decided not to question it.

Eventually, they saw another boat down the river. Two figures, one older man and then a small, younger boy. Upon seeing them, Mateus smiled brightly, obvious recognition flashing in his eyes. He cupped his large hands around his mouth and let out a few whoops of happiness. The older man looked up at them, eyes narrowed, but upon seeing Mateus, now far more detailed and recognizable, he began to mirror Mateus's expression of joy.

"Mateus!" he yelled, pulling a net out of the water and then discarding it in the boat, the smaller boy keeping his in the water and looking at the newcomers with curiosity. Once in proper distance, Mateus jumped their boat, causing the young boy to grip the side with fright as it nearly overturned thanks to the newly added, heavy weight. He embraced the older, frail man, and for a moment, Ausiliatrice seriously feared that her partner would crush him.

But it seemed like the man had expected this and laughed in good humor, then coughed, punching Mateus on his back, telling the younger man to let go. And with another robust sound of happiness, Mateus dropped him, causing the old man to stumble.

"Long time no see, gramps," Mateus greeted in Portuguese (the language he was most fluent in, Ausiliatrice had noticed, Mateus being rather choppy in every other tongue), clapping the elder on the back, causing him to cough and hold his chest.

"You haven't changed," the old man wheezed, then coughed again, gaining his breath back, "Your father, does he know you're coming?"

"Nah," Mateus replied with his usual, cheeky, flash of a grin, "it's a surprise."

"I see…." the man's eyes trailed from Mateus, and then settled on Ausiliatrice, who had reached out and brought the two boats together, making sure the younger boy was safe and secure and giving Mateus a disapproving look while gently holding the boy's arm. The child still looked bewildered, having almost fallen into the water due to Mateus jumping in their boat, unannounced.

It was true, Ausiliatrice had a soft spot for children, and the young boy seemed to almost cling to her as they made their way towards the small village, having pulled their boats up onto the bank and now following a quaint path snaking through the forest. Mateus gave her a few cheeky looks as he walked ahead, talking excitedly with the man. Ausiliatrice ignored them, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction from her.

Eventually, the path had led them to small houses and huts, all warmly occupied with people sitting or standing outside of them, children hanging out windows to watch people mingle and commute through other paths that cut through the main. Some older children, looking to be at eight or so, saw Mateus and ran excitedly up to him.

Mateus's large arms soon had children hanging off of them, laughing and giggling, happily welcoming him back. It was quite the warm reunion, and Mateus was more than well known. He received warm claps and touches and then returned them with an equally large grin. Ausiliatrice would stand back, watching as always, and Mateus would let her, even divert other's attentions away from her, knowing that she appreciated the shadows far more than the light. She was more than happy to let him have these reunions and not get in the way.

The children, however, he would let through this veiled defense. They approached her shyly, deterred by her eyes, but this turned to curiosity, which lead to vocal questions about her eyes and her hair, and her life, and how she knew Mateus.

He turned once, and his heart swelled; the woman he loved was kneeling, talking gently to the small group of children that had gathered, answering their questions with patience in both eyes and voice, in body and mind. She nodded, gently, and guided the small girl's hand to her hair. The girl smiled and giggled, because Ausiliatrice's hair was like her own.

He loved her, so much. But this was a realization that he had come to long ago.

* * *

"Sun?"

"Flower," she allowed, giving him a sly look as he slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her a bit closer. They had lost their parade earlier, Mateus deciding that he wanted to see his father again in privacy.

"Considering you haven't come back in five years or so," Ausiliatrice had berated him, having guessed easily from the ages of the children who remembered Mateus and those who didn't, "this is a smart move."

"Ah, he's used to it, yeah?" He rolled his shoulders and eyes, looking around in the foliage, distracting himself. They were making their way upon the snaking path, deeper and up into a far hillier region. "I mean, I can't just stay in one place, you know that," he nodded again, acknowledging her and she hummed in agreement, "but they need him here, and he understands. I became a hero of Olympus to travel, and to kick ass; you know, have an adventure, yeah? To find something."

"And did you?" she asked with a small tug of her lips. He paused, then looked over at her with shining eyes, brimming with humor.

"I found you, didn't I?" She pushed his chest lightly and he laughed, only to quell both voice and footsteps as they had reached the end of the path, leading straight to a small, quaint house. Ausiliatrice looked over at her partner, realizing that this was one of the few times she had ever seen him so hesitant, so reluctant. She then grabbed his hand and pulled him up the steps. She knocked on the door herself and stepped back, waiting until a man opened it.

The relation was quite obvious, in the face Ausiliatrice noticed immediately. Compared to Mateus's incredible built stature, his father was rather small. Still fit, though. A leader, like Mateus. Others looked up to him naturally, and trusted him in the same manner. Ausiliatrice knew this all from looking at the man in front of her just once, but he was occupied staring at his son.

A familiar grin, and then:

"What, I don't even get a postcard?" And then the man had wrapped his arms around Mateus and squeezed and somehow managed to lift her partner at least a few inches off the ground. He groaned loudly and immediately regretted this decision with a loud laugh. There was a pause, and then Mateus mirrored the action, this time spinning his father around with ease and setting him back down again with a laugh, humored by his old man's complaints of dizziness.

"I always get so stressed out," Mateus admitted, hands on his father's shoulders, "and I also ask myself why after I see your face."

"A lot could change in six years," his father admitted, growing serious for a second, but not being able to keep the mask, breaking out into a grin once again, "but luckily, your old man is stubborn as Hell."

"Like father, like son," Mateus said, going forward to envelope his father in a crushing hug once again. It wasn't until after the man had berated his son for doing so a bit more, that his eyes looked past Mateus and landed on Ausiliatrice. They widened slightly, and turned to Mateus.

"Honestly," he said, eyes turning mischievous, "I never expected you to bring a girl home. And such a looker too."

"Pa," Mateus said, stepping back and gesturing to the Ausiliatrice, as if showing her off, a proud grin on his face. Ausiliatrice smiled, a bit awkwardly she felt, but politely and dipped her head in greeting, waiting for him to introduce her.

"This is Ausil."

"Ausiliatrice," she corrected, her small smile dropping as she sent Mateus a cold look.

"Renan," he introduced, almost hesitantly, staring into her eyes. A moment, and then he laughed awkwardly catching himself and rubbing the back of his head. "Sorry, sorry; I apologize. It's just that my wife had dark eyes as well. Not as dark, but, still…." he trailed off once more, remembering with a frown.

"She did?" It was a genuine question from Mateus, who seemed curious, with a pinch of sadness. Longing. Ausiliatrice could understand that.

"Never mind that," Renan dismissed, happy again after a few waves of his hand (but it was not forgotten, never. It was still there, festering, in the back of all of their minds; the man's far longer than hers, for it had been placed there far longer). He waved his hand, beckoning them to follow him into the small house, a homey, warm place that made Ausiliatrice feel secure.

"Help me with these," Renan said, going to a corner of crate and other dried foods. He turned, smiling holding bottles of alcohol up.

"My son is back after six years. I think that's cause for some celebration."

* * *

It was a splendid mix of lights and laughter, music and song, people and voices, cultures and skin colors from different places and horizons. People exchanged happy grins and bottles, sharing stories and laughter, giving it away like a gift to a family member. It was impressive, Ausiliatrice thought, how many people were here, from various places, all united in this small village. Only the children were really born here, Mateus had told her, with him being the oldest. The others, adults, they were travelers, wanderers who came into this small village hidden in the forest and settled, content with their new home. The children? They tendered to wander, follow the river and perhaps, maybe come back. Perhaps. Like Mateus. And if not?

They were excitable, rambunctious people, matching Mateus's rhythm. While they drank and laughed around the numerous lights and fire, Ausiliatrice felt content to sit to the side and watch. She had found droll companionship and two elderly women, one native to Brazil and the other Chinese. Occasionally, she would receive company and compliments, telling how they were glad Mateus had found someone so beautiful; Mateus was having fun showing her off, she noticed, but was careful not to throw too much attention to her. He was kind that way, but still kept to his mischievous streak when giving her greatly amused looks when he noticed her company. No doubt, she would hear about this later, how she acted like an old woman and kept company with them as well. However, she couldn't help but give him an equally amused look when he began dancing with a number of old woman as well.

While the Chinese woman was happy to swap torture techniques with Ausiliatrice (having been an assassin in her youth), the elderly Brazilian had remained quiet the entire time, eerily watching Ausiliatrice's every movement.

"Don't mind her," Yao Song said, blowing another stream of smoke and noticing Ausiliatrice glancing at the other woman, "Luana's a fortune teller; she's just reading you."

"Reading?" Ausiliatrice repeated, tilting her head slightly and setting down her drink, now staring more intently at the dark skinned elder. And the woman stared back with equally blank eyes.

Ausiliatrice stiffened, the woman leaning forward and lifted wrinkled hands to Ausiliatrice's face, cupping it gently, but firmly.

"Death," the woman said, her voice aged and ripened with knowledge, wisdom, foreboding, "settles on your shoulder blades like wings. And you glide with them. But your eyes," she said, lifting her chin, as if looking down on Ausiliatrice.

"You have the eyes," the elder woman noted, "of one who always in mourning."

The heavy truth of her words (a warning?) sent of cold spike through Ausiliatrice, who found her hand on the holster at her hip without even knowing. Her grip tightened as a warm hand (too warm, almost searing) laid on her shoulder and the woman's hands ( _Death_ ) was wretched away from her face.

"Ausil? Ausiliatrice?"

She looked up, seeing Mateus shaking her shoulder, looking down at her with concern. She blinked and looked at her side, and with a sigh of perhaps relief, she put the gun back into its holster. His hand hesitated, hovering over the shoulder he had just touched, and then instead, he offered his hand to her.

"Sun?" he asked wearily, watching, concerned.

She took it without saying flower.

As he pulled her to the outskirts of the celebration, she looked back, still seeing the woman staring at her. And when she looked away and towards Mateus again, her partner, her love;

The eyes of death felt heavy on her back.

(always)

"If you're wanting to dance, the answer is the same as before," she told her partner, suspicious, but attempting to qualm his worries. Supposedly, he had said her name a few times before touching her, and even then, it was only out of alarm. He smiled, a bit forced she caught, but a smile none the less.

"Nah, actually," he said, turning around and holding her other hand, walking backwards and further on the small path that was leading them away from the lights and music of the party, "I wanted to show you something, yeah? But…. you're okay, yeah?"

There was a moment of hesitation, and then she softened, feeling the warmth of his hands, his blood rushing against hers. Her thumb traced circles on his hand, her other fingers intertwined comfortably with his.

Warm. Safe.  _Home_.

"I'm with you," she replied simply. His face grew warm, and his smile grew fonder. After a whisper of consent, he leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on her forehead, lingering.

"I love you," he said.

"I know," she replied, staring with half veiled eyes into his chest. A slow blink. And then:

"I love you too."

* * *

Mateus shushed her softly, but stopped, giving her a cheeky grin when she gave him a look. Ausiliatrice looked back, eyes warm as they carefully passed the large jaguar laying calmly in the tree, staring down at the couple indifferently. It was different, she noted, than her old companion of the savanna. Sturdier, much more built. The fresh blood on its snout made of obvious that it had just finished a meal, and therefore seemed uninterested in to the two.

"I wonder…" Mateus muttered, now turning back onto the path, securing his arm around Ausiliatrice once more after asking, "if that's the same one from all those years ago. I would like to think so, yeah? To think that he hung around."

"They tend to," Ausiliatrice said lightly humming, "at least, my friend did."

"Friend, yeah?" he said, laughing and bumping her lightly.

"Friends," she corrected and put in as an afterthought.

"Wow," he let out a whistle, "with your personality?" She let out a small puff of laughter and pushed him away, separating them. He laughed again and then called her back, causing her to stop her movement. He lifted some foliage and gestured, a wide grin on his face. She raised an eyebrow, but ducked under his arm, waiting until she felt his gentle touch and then allowed him to lead her once again.

"I wanted to show you," he said, pausing before pushing aside more large leaves, looking back at her genuinely, "I wanted to show you my special place, yeah?"

He moved the remaining greenery aside and led her forward, into a small clearing atop a cliff, bordered by the exotic plant life Ausiliatrice had become familiar with in her time here. She moved forward, and then stopped before the edge, looking down at the great expanse of forest below, overlooking a grand basin. Then above, stars and constellations glistened, clear and undisturbed.

After asking and being answered, Mateus slinked his arms around her waist as they both looked out over the view. He set his head gently against her head and let out a contented sigh.

"Just like you," he whispered into her hair, "beautiful."

"You're just as," she replied, leaning back into him. He scoffed and moved away, going to sit on the edge of the cliff. He shook his head, as if not believing her words.

"This place," he said, as she went to sit next to him, "I thought of this place when I first saw you. I didn't understand then. But," he said, thinking, hesitating, "I think I do now, yeah?"

He paused, his hand going to his pocket, and a calm quiet settled over them. He pulled a small object out of his pocket and turned it between his fingers, as if wanting to remember every detail of it.

"I didn't know you looked like my mother," he admitted suddenly, looking up and out into the forest below them. Her eyes however, remained on the sky, the stars; freedom and longing both stretched out in front of them. She let him talk without interruption, knowing that he needed to present this to her, as if putting constellations in the sky.

"I never knew her, yeah? When I was little, really small, before I could even remember… she left. She just left. My dad came back in the house one day, and found it empty, just me on the bed…. and this," he said, opening his palm and showing her a small ring with a jade bead, bound in copper. Quaint and small, but beautiful. "It was the ring he made for her. And she just left. This, him, me. Without one word. Weird, yeah? And I didn't get it, when I was young. And you know, I told you, when people leave this place, they don't really come back, yeah?" He took a breath, and closed his hand once again, hiding the ring once more.

"I didn't get it then, when I was little. But then - but then I started to understand; I wanted to leave too. I wanted adventure, yeah? But my dad, Pa, he was scared, because… you know? She left too, and she didn't come back. But I had to leave, you know?"

And she did. She really did. And she told him this by moving her hand to his, and linking their fingers. She squeezed once and he continued.

"And so I did. I left when I was 10 at first, and then I came back when I was twelve. I would leave, yeah, but I want to come back. I'll always come back. For him, yeah? And then I left again. I looked older than I was, and I was strong. Started killing. Became a hero. Back then, when I first started out, I just kind of wandered, yeah? And I realized what I was doing. I was looking for her, Ausil. I was looking for my mother." He let out a sharp breath of laughter. A sad crack.

"It's stupid, yeah? I mean, I don't even know what the fuck she looked like, and I don't have any memories of her. Pa, he never even talked about her, and didn't even tell me this was her ring. It's…" he hesitated, rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb on his right, and once again turning the ring and feeling it on his left, "it's all that he had left of her. And he didn't even say anything when he saw me with it. He never wants to talk about her. But," he snapped back, moving on, squeezing his eyes tight once and then letting go, "I realized I was looking for her, yeah? And that's fucking stupid, right? Looking for someone you never met, someone you don't even know. She doesn't even know me. And so I gave up, I guess. I don't really know when. And then I found you," he looked over at her, and then moved his hand, bringing hers up to place the ring into it.

"That's better than finding her, yeah? At least," he said, looking away after closing her hand around it. Then looking straight into her eyes, hopeful, lovingly, "that's what I think. Fate favors some, yeah?"

Ausiliatrice opened her mouth daintily, and then opened her hand in the same manner, inspecting the ring. It looked far too delicate for someone like her. Far too beautiful and loved.

"I'm looking for my father," she admitted, the statement a wisp of breath. "My mother left me on the savanna when I was ten, with nothing but what she taught me and his name. I've been looking for him since. I was," she corrected, and then looked up into his eyes, "until I met you. And I realized that I was no longer looking."

They had both been found.

Love. Longing.  _Home._

What they had both been looking for.

"I don't wear rings," she said, leaning on his shoulder now, both looking to the horizon. The first light of sun of peaking, ever so hesitantly, as if afraid of what was coming.

"We can find you a chain," Mateus said, mumbling into her hair once more, "and you can wear it around your neck, yeah? Then it won't get in the way."

"What does this mean to you?" she asked, still looking at the ring, turning in her hand as he had been doing before. "What's its definition?" she elaborated. He shrugged, letting a casual smile slink onto his face as the sun slinked further upwards, in the manner of a wounded animal.

"Whatever you want it to mean," he said and then straightened, lifting himself off the ground and then stretching. "We should get back," he said, blinking slowly and yawning. "They'll be wondering where we are, yeah? It's sunrise."

It was, she noted, not looking over at him, but looking towards the daunting sun with a firm frown, still feeling the ring between her fingers.

It felt as if he had passed a heavy burden to her, but why was that? Why did everything in her life feel like the sunrise to another tragedy? Why did this perfect scenario feel like a warning.

Mourning eyes, the woman had told her, but Ausiliatrice felt that that mourning spread farther than that. As she slipped the ring onto her finger, on her left hand, on her ring finger, on the blood stream that connected to the heart, she felt this overwhelming apprehension use that channel to spread this feeling throughout her entire body.

She was in mourning even before she had lost.

And as she looked up at him, as he held out a hand with a bright smile on his face, his entire form illuminated by the sun, she realized that this relationship, being in love with him, accepting this ring; it was all a promise that she felt she couldn't keep.

And yet,

she took his hand. And he lifted her to her feet, but she didn't let him let go. She held onto him firmly.

Mateus was wrong; fate would never favor her. But she would be damned if she couldn't hold onto him for as long as she could. For as long as this sunrise could last, no matter how wounded they were. And in that moment, without her realizing, she was back on the savanna, she was young again, sitting on that road, laying with the lions, sleeping beside her leopard. She had never changed.

She was waiting.

* * *

 

Ausiliatrice watched with slightly narrowed eyes, one hand near the gun at her hip while the other was holding and idly playing with the ring attached to the chain around her neck. She watched as Mateus talked with their employers, eyes narrowing further as they laughed.

The Estraneo Family. Not exactly prominent, but they weren't nobodies either. Known for their weapon making skills and scientific discoveries and what not. Word was, according to Shamal from her last drink with him, that they were working on a rather large project that they were attempting to keep in check and away from the prying eyes of the underground. But, Ausiliatrice knew, it would only be a matter of time before it got out. They weren't strong enough to protect their secrets for long, after all. Only a matter of time, only a matter of time.

Mateus was keeping something from her. And it too, was a matter of time before he finally told her what it was. He wasn't strong in that sense, after all. But Ausiliatrice was keen enough to have guessed what he wanted. She knew him well enough.

He was acting too friendly with the Estraneo. Too open. Too approachable. And from their stand point, Mateus and she seemed like a nice addition to their family who needed more protection. Who needed to keep their secrets well-guarded.

It wasn't until weeks later, months after they had come back from Brazil, that she had confronted him on the matter. Ausiliatrice was a straight forward woman and had felt she had waited long enough for him to come forward himself.

She sighed, looking up from her book and then set it down, ceasing stroking his head. He blinked up at her, his head having been in her lap, a usual place when they were simply resting. She looked down, raising an eyebrow, waiting (as always, as she always did).

"You want something," she accused, staring down at him. "Tell me." He sighed, pushing himself up, and sitting on the couch, with his back to her. He turned to sit normally, but had yet to turn his head to her.

"I want…." he hesitated, then continued, resolved, but not yet looking her in the eyes. "I want to join a family."

"The Estraneo?" she asked. He shrugged.

"Maybe?" he said, then sighed, leaning back. He had been thinking for a while, she noted. Longing.

"I just want… something, yeah? A family. Somewhere to actually belong," he let a small, yet tired smile tug at his lips. "I want to be a part of something. You and me, we deserve more, yeah? I want us to be a part of something bigger; an actually family. Something."

"We're already heroes of Olympus."

"That's different, Ausil," he told her, sighing almost sadly, frustrated, "that's not family. That's just work." He stopped, then looked to her, for a response, for anything.

"Ausiliatrice." He sighed, slumping further.

"Aren't you tired?" he asked quietly, staring at the wall while she stared at out the window, to the sky, frowning. The clouds, she noted, were over taking the sky. Too many to see the bright blue.

"Aren't you tired of this routine?" he elaborated, thinking as he talked, putting words to the feelings he had been harboring for a while now, "We're just floating, Ausil."

"I thought you wanted adventure," she recalled vaguely.

"We had that, Ausil," he said, turning to her suddenly, giving a soft smile. "Sun?" She hesitated, and then replied, letting him envelope her hands in his. "We had our adventure. But don't you think it's time to move on from that? Live for a bigger purpose? Don't you want something else?"

"I want to be free," she said firmly, having known this her entire life, "I want to be unbound."

"Being connected to a family doesn't mean you are bound," he said to her quietly. She hesitated, then shook her head.

"Yes," she said, "it does. I am free now. We," she elaborated, "are free. Together."

"And you want it to stay that way," he realized, closing his eyes sadly, knowing that she would not budge. She never did. "Ausil," he breathed out, tightening his grip around her hands, "please Ausiliatrice, you can't just be stubborn like this. You never commit to anything, yeah?" She ripped her hands away, growing offended. Cold.

"I committed to you, didn't I?" she stated icily. He winced, and reached forward again, but she turned away from him. Her hand went to her necklace, messing with the ring attached to it once more. His mother's ring.

"You want to leave," she stated. He sighed, turning away as well.

"Not you. I don't want to leave you," he stated and she knew he spoke the truth. "But" - there was always a clause, wasn't there - "I want to join a family. The Estraneo have invited us. Both of us."

She let her hand fall releasing the ring. In her mind, she recalled another conversation from her childhood; of clouds and weather, of how she wasn't like her mother, that she wasn't a cloud like Esmeralda. But that accusation was incorrect. She was her mother's daughter after all.

"You're going where I can't follow," she told him. But he already knew that. "You go. Please," she said, putting her hand out, gently holding his wrist when he opened his mouth to argue, "you know you can't convince me." He chuckled, hollowly.

"Yeah," he said, then nodded, "yeah. I know. Sorry." She lifted his hand, and gently kissed it.

"I am too," she said. He looked over at her, frowning.

"Are you?"

"I'd like to think so," she admitted, letting his hand fall from her grasp.

"I'm meeting with them tomorrow," he said, getting up and moving away from her.

"Keep in contact, please," she said, looking over at him when he reentered the room with his things later that night, ready to leave. Ready to leave her. He hesitated, and then approached her once more. The clouds had melded together. It was raining now, not a speckle of blue to be seen.

"Sun?" he asked, hopeful and yet sad.

"Flower," she said, already in mourning (always in mourning; mourning eyes, mourning heart, mourning soul). He leaned, kissing her on the forehead one last time. "You know I'll stay in touch. I'll talk to you soon, and who knows?" he said, smiling once more, the skin under his eyes crinkling as always (as always). "Maybe you'll join me soon enough, yeah?" She smiled lightly, looking down, knowing that she wouldn't.

She knew a goodbye when she heard one. And she knew that he was too good for her to hold him back. Because she had been thinking too. Far too much on this subject, on how he was too good for someone like her. Someone so tainted. Someone who spent too much of their time waiting and searching for what she didn't know she wanted.

She thought about her father. _Reborn_. She felt a pang. Of what? Guilt? Resentment? She had abandoned her search for him after all. But did she ever truly start in the first place?

"I love you," she said again, looking up at him when he had reached the door. He looked back at her, smiling once more, crinkling his skin, flashing his brilliant teeth.

"I know," he said. And perhaps, he knew too. She hoped that he knew. And he left without closing the door, leaving it open for her to follow,

and she still let him go.

* * *

"I know a broken heart when I see one," Shamal noted, pushing his empty glass towards the bartender. Ausiliatrice eyed the contents of her glass as well, but made no move to touch it.

Humans were complicated creatures. Fickle. Unsure. Insecure. Happy one moment and the next? Longing for something else unattainable. But she was at fault as well. She had let him go, and yet, she convinced herself that he was far too happy for her. That he could still be happy without her.

Mateus had never contacted her after he had left.

"Shame, I never met your partner," Shamal hummed, looking over at her, "but does this mean that you're free again?" His playful expression dropped, seeing that her attitude had not changed. He was reminded again of how young she was. Of how she was different from her parents. Young love, young love, he thought. Like mother, like daughter, like father, like daughter.

"Free," she muttered, narrowing her eyes, "I was never bound in the first place." She was stupidly stubborn. But he was too. Two jagged edges that fit together perfectly, that she thought would be reunited again. But he hadn't contacted her. Silence for a week. She could hear her own heart beat if she listened hard enough. And it was missing his.

"You said he joined a family, right?" Shamal asked, propping his elbows on the bar.

"Estraneo," she replied. He stiffened, and turned to her suddenly.

"The Estraneo Family?" he repeated, his tone causing her to be on edge immediately. He cursed, running hand through his hair, "shit, it's not really out yet, is it?" She narrowed her eyes dangerously, and turned to him. A threatening aura emitted from her, causing Shamal to grow hostile as well, hand going to his pocket, ready to unleash a mosquito, if needed, if provoked.

"Listen," he said, lowering his voice and leaning forward, "that family…. they just found out, so it's not exactly well known yet but… well, now it's just a matter of time, I guess." He sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, he continued, Ausiliatrice listening intently. "Their little 'project' they've been working on? It's a crime against humanity. The whole family is going to be persecuted soon enough. They've been pulling people in and experimenting on them. I heard they're even been using their own children. If your partner was just invited recently..."

Ausiliatrice's hand tightened around her glass, shattering it. She moved quickly, exiting the bar without a word, leaving a bewildered Shamal behind. She waked briskly, weaving between the people on the streets and flipped out her phone, putting a familiar number in while her mind was racing, her blood was boiling, her eyes alive with lividness.

She had been right about his stupidity, and now he was paying the price for it.

She spoke into the phone as soon as they picked up.

"Hera? I need information, now."

* * *

 

It took too long, Ausiliatrice thought, to get the location on the Estraneo family. By then, word had gotten about their project, and they were being shot down already if they stepped a foot out into the open. It took another week for Hermes to give Ausiliatrice a solid location.

And when she got there? There was already the distinct smell of copper in the air.

It was child's play to infiltrate the facility, but Ausiliatrice was surprised to already find dead bodies in her path. She kneeled, turning one body over and inspecting the wounds. Larges gashes, awful and already putrid wounds covered the man's front. And as she moved further and deeper through the hallways, she soon put pieces together easily. It seemed that all the subjects had been released, and the dead bodies? Their captors.

A mutiny, she guessed. Betrayal from their own lab rats. She could only hope that Mateus was a lab rat who managed to escape, and not die along with his tormentors.

She felt a pang. Guilt? Perhaps. She should never have let him go. And now, here she was, paying for her kindness. She shut her eyes for one moment, and then moved on, putting those thought passed her. He wasn't dead yet, she promised herself. But she might as well have been lying.

She rounded the corner and encountered the first living thing she had come across in the building.

A child, splattered with blood. Ausiliatrice stopped, her footsteps silent. She stared at the child, and he stared back. He had an aura to him that unnerved Ausiliatrice, an aura that a child (so young, so young) should not have. This was a child that had already taken more lives than needed.

This was a child that reminded Ausiliatrice of herself. Somewhere, in those strange, heterochromatic eyes, Ausiliatrice saw her own reflection. Loss. Grief. Longing.

And she knew that the boy saw this as well.

"You're…" his blank expression morphed into almost one of wary curiosity. Apprehension. He faltered, but then found his voice. "You're not one of them?"

"No," she told him, without breaking eye contact. "Do you believe me?" she asked, eyes going to the dead bodies littered like bread crumbs behind him.

"Yes," he admitted. A child, such a young child, she thought again, repeating as a mantra. Too young, too young.

"I'm looking for someone," she explained, lifting her chin slightly, opening it, baring it. A sign of peace. Showing she meant no harm. His lip barely quirked, understanding.

Ah, she thought. A predator as well.

(so young, too young).

"So am I."

"Then we should be on our way," Ausiliatrice decided, moving forward, outputting her aura. Even if he was a child (so young, so young) he was still clearly dangerous. But so was she. And he knew this. They passed peaceful, but tensely, Ausiliatrice ready to put a bullet through the child's forehead when they barely brushed against each other, passing quite closely for how large the hallway was.

And then they parted ways. Strangers. Mutuals. Looking for familiarity. Not finding it here.

But she did find it soon enough. She had heard him gasping for breath at first, and then had entered the room quickly, but nearly crumbled just as, seeing the state he was in.

He was laying in the middle of a room, filled with destroyed machinery, corpses, nearly torn apart and scattered around him like a fairy ring. His body was scarred, nearly beyond recognition. But when she entered and he saw her, barely lifting his head and breathing heavily, blood dribbling from his chin, blood seeping from the numerous wounds on his body, blood creeping onto the tile below him,

he let out a cough of laughter and he grinned. She saw the crinkle of his skin beneath his eyes and it hurt her. It hurt so goddamn much.

"Dammit," he coughed out, turning on his side and speckling the tile near his mouth with blood, "I definitely did not want you to see me like this. A shit show, yeah?" She took a breath and moved forward, kneeling beside him. She hesitated, and then put a hand on his shoulder, stroking it.

"Sorry," he said again as she repositioned him, moving to kneel at his head and then putting it in her lap. She began to stroke his hair like usual, as if he were simply falling asleep in her lap as he had done many times before. But he wasn't, she knew. He was far too injured. He had lost far too much blood. He was far too injured, far too torn apart. Ausiliatrice was no doctor, no. But she was far too familiar with death to not see it laying out in front of her.

"I tried," he choked out, "I tried to get away when I heard them… I killed a few, yeah? But they had guns," he said smiling weakly, "Bastards had it coming. Thought I didn't have it in me, yeah? But I did, so fuck them, yeah?" More hollow laughter. Ausiliatrice continued to stroke his head calmingly, letting him talk because wasn't that how it always was? He was their voice, her their strength.

"Took a bunch of them to tie me down when I got here, you know? They used me to test that damn bullet on…." he recalled, wincing. She shushed him, shaking her head.

"You're fine," she muttered, reassuring me, "you're fine."

"Nah," he shook his head, breath labored again, "no, I should have listened to you, yeah? I shouldn't have joined this fucking family. They were too nice, you know? I guess I liked that, yeah?"

"I shouldn't have let you go alone," she told him, still shaking her head.

"Then I guess we're both wrong, right?" he said then winced again, shifting slightly, "No, no, you're wrong, I'm the wrong one. That make sense? Fuck," he relented, then fell back after trying to move again. "Fuck," he said again, shaking his head lightly, "you're perfect. I shouldn't have left, you're perfect."

"Shhsss," she shushed him quietly, and stroked his hair even softer, as she always did. "I'm not, I'm not." He laughed again, disagreeing, as always.

"So I was thinking yeah, that we should have kids," he said, stumbling through words now, in Portuguese, what comes easiest to him, his native tongue leaving his lips like the blood that dribbled from them, "Like eventually, when we're older, like we could always take care of kids on the street, yeah? But I was thinking, we'd have some fucking gorgeous kids, yeah? I mean, they wouldn't look much like me, yeah, because I'm fucking ugly. God, how'd I get someone like you, yeah?"

She shushed him once more and shook her head, causing him look from where he had been staring into the void of her curls, and now his eyes were lost in the abyss of the eyes she had never been comfortable with, the eyes that she had always hated. Her father's eyes.

"They're going to look like you," he said quietly, his hand twitching, and then being helped by Ausiliatrice as it was guided to her hair, where his fingers gently wrapped and played with the curls, staining them with his blood, "I hope they look like you. They would have your hair, yeah? Because, when I see you, yeah, when I imagine you, that's the first thing I think, you know? And then, your eyes. Those eyes, shit, it's always your eyes. I hope they have your eyes. I hope they look like you, yeah? Beautiful? Perfect?"

"I want them to have your eyes," she corrected quietly, bringing his hand to the side of her face, and softly holding it there, "I don't want to pass these on to anyone."

"No, no," he said, letting out a bit a laughter, coming out in chokes of blood, "they're beautiful, you're beautiful." And she nodded, not agreeing, but assuring, knowing. And he knew too.

Time; they were running out of it.

"Ah, fuck," he coughed out suddenly, shame leaking into his voice, blood still seeping out of the numerous wounds littering his corpse, "I'm sorry," he choked, "sorry. I forgot, and I've been touching you this whole time." He laughed, but it was cracking, falling apart like the rest of his earthly body.

"It's fine," she whispered, still holding his hand to her face, "it's fine."

"No, no," he shook his head weakly, voice aching and waning. "No, it's not, I know you don't like it." His face contorted as he barely managed to shift himself. A breath. And then.

"Sun?"

"Flower."

"Sun."

"Flower," she finished, voice cracking, seeing that he was fading, voice, spirit. Everything.

"Sun," she said, this time, for the first time, asking to touch him.

"Sun?" Her hand tightened around his, limp. Still warm and yet unmoving.

"Sun?" And there was no answer. Ausiliatrice bit her bottom lip hard, and squeezed his hand one last time before returning it to lay by his side. She took a breath, and then leaned over, and put her head on his chest, feeling the warm blood smear on her cheek. She closed her eyes, gently, and listened in the same manner.

There was no heartbeat.

* * *

She figured that the young boy from before had found who he was looking for, and they were now safely away from the building. And if not? Ausiliatrice was burning it either way, and would watch it go up in flames from a distance with numb eyes. Mourning eyes.

Her mother had taught her how to leave things properly, to erase all traces and leave only ash. This was one of Esmeralda's ways of running way. This was how her mother forgot things; in the heat of passion and flames, leaving only embers. As was her way.

But Ausiliatrice disagreed. Ausiliatrice was different. She burned the building to remember Mateus; to embed his memory, his smile, his body, and give him a proper send off in the beauty of embers.

She didn't set fire to things to forget them; she set fire to remember. So this light would always reach and lightly brush against her memories.

Of course, she would be a fool to think that the flames would consume everything, as many secrets and experiments she knew this corrupted family to have. But, it would do for a sendoff. It would do to honor Mateus.

His body was far too corrupted and disheveled ( _violated, violated_ ) for her to take, and she honestly didn't think that option was open to her in the first place. But, she realized coldly, hands going to grip the axes, his axes, that were now on her own back after she had retrieved them; she realized that she had a job do now.

Ausiliatrice turned away and began walking, leaving his body to ash, leaving this horrid place that killed him to flames and embers and smoke.

Somebody had to tell his father, after all.

* * *

It was a clear enough message, her returning alone, without him. No one dared approach her as she walked through the village, eyes staring at her, then at Matues's axes at her sides. Even the children knew, perhaps more than the adults. They let her pass solemnly.

She met eyes with the elderly woman, Luana. And she made herself look away. Mourning eyes indeed. For her mother. For Matues. For herself? No. Never.

As she stood in front of Renan's door, she thought to her necklace, to the ring hanging from the chain around her neck. She thought of how his mother left and never returned. She thought of how she could not fulfill his promises not to do the same.

She knocked, and Renan answer, a smile on his face upon recognizing her, but it disappearing just as quickly when he didn't see Mateus accompanying her. He looked, seeing his axes strapped to her sides. He swallowed. A moment, and then:

"Where is my son?"

Mateus had always been able to pull words, full conversations even, just from looking into Ausiliatrice's eyes. And it seemed that his father could understand her looks as well.

His face contorted into wordless pain until sobs wrecked his frame and escaped from his mouth, twisted, unsure of their placement. Not knowing how exactly to express this tremendous loss. He fell forward, now delivering his emotions in volume

and Ausiliatrice caught him as he embraced her tightly, not knowing what else to do but catch him and let him fall apart in her arms, having no one else left in his life now that his only son, his last blood relative was torn away and burned to ashes. He came undone in her arms, having lost his son, who left and never returned. Like his wife, who left and never returned. He fell apart, and Ausiliatrice didn't know what else to do but to catch him and allow him to do so.

If she could throw his ashes into the sky and make a constellation of Mateus, she would. But Ausiliatrice was far from a god. A Greek hero, perhaps, because even demigods made mistakes. Heroes died; she had learned this when she was a little girl. A constellation would be nice, but she supposed this would do as well.

He would have wanted you to keep them, Renan had said, but she knew she could not bring herself to use them. Not like he did. Not after this.

Guns and bullets were her method of murder for a reason; death by distance, and even when in close range, it was quick and efficient, and it was done and over in less than a second. Nearly painless for both parties. And although Ausiliatrice was proficient in most weapons, and although she knew how to skillfully defend herself,

Mateus's axes were put to a much better use marking his grave.

But it wasn't really a grave was it? For it to be grave, there would have to be body, and she couldn't bear to bring his mutilated ( _violated, violated_ ) corpse back to his home. He wouldn't have wanted to return that way.

Instead this was a monument to him, his life. Them. In the place, his favorite place, his secret place, where he had brought her the first night he had brought her back to his country, his home.

She placed his axes, fixating them firmly in the ground, overlooking the expansive forest beyond; his home. Her hand went to her necklace and she shut her eyes, letting out a shaky breath.

It was at this moment, she allowed herself to realize that he was gone. She had watched him die. It wasn't just someone leaving her, like her mother had. There was no chance that he would return; there was no doubt that he was dead. Gone. Lost.

And it wasn't just losing another life, for she took so many. Death was a far too familiar companion in her life.

No: she had lost a third home.

And this realization came to hit, hit her so harshly and violently, like a gun shot, like a bullet; it came to her just how she preferred to kill.

And she fell to her knees, and cried out harshly, ugly, sobbing and screaming out his name and longing for him to be beside her just one last time.

Because she loved him, and even more, he loved her back.

Humans were complicated creatures.

Loving. Resilient. Fragile. Cruel.

But fate was far crueler than people could ever be.

And so Ausiliatrice fell with melted wings, having lost her vivid sun,

wax burning, searing.

And there was no one there to catch her.

* * *

_"People_

_are not_

_rain_

_or_

_snow_

_or autumn_

_leaves;_

_they_

_do not_

_look_

_beautiful_

_when_

_they_

_fall."_

**_-Nav K_ **

 


	9. Her Mother Taught Her to Leave

**Lesson 9:**

**Her Mother Taught Her to Leave**

* * *

 

_"She was still waiting for him to come back to her, even though he wasn't going to. She was still holding out for something that wasn't going to happen. She was good at waiting. That seemed like a sad thing to be good at."_

**_– Ann Brashares_ **

* * *

 

When was the last time she had cut her hair? Had it ever truly been cut before, chopped and berated? Nothing more than trims, she recalled.

She had her mother's hair. The wild, coiled and curled locks had fit Esmeralda so well, and had swiveled and bounced as her mother would move and talk and turn and spit the familiar, white hot fire out from between her lips. Her mother had taught Ausiliatrice how to take care and maintain this hair, different techniques to tame if it needed. To braid and twist into locks as Esmeralda had often worn, if not just letting it fall naturally.

Ausiliatrice recalled pleasant memories of her childhood, sitting in front of Esmeralda, her mother's legs crossed and hands in Ausiliatrice's hair. Esmeralda's voice would be peaceful then (such a rare occasion) and her fingers would work methodically, as her mother taught her, as her mother taught her, as her mother taught her; the matriarch had always been strong in their family. Had ( _had, had, had_ ), according to her mother. Past tense. But the lessons lived on in her mother's fingertips. This movement coming as a reflex now, naturally, having done this to her own hair many times, and now doing it to her daughter's. And although Esmeralda had made sure to teach Ausiliatrice many ways to put her hair up and away, braid it beautifully retain elegance,

Ausiliatrice had always preferred her hair to be down and free. It was a source of pride almost. Honor. Showing culture and heritage and strength. Showing her blood without spilling it. It was all these things to Ausiliatrice and she herself was fond of its beauty.

Mateus had loved her hair as well.

When she had become comfortable enough to sleep in the same bed, he would ask to hold her and rest ("Flower," she would murmur tiredly, as always, as always, because he asked and always respected), and he would pull her lightly to him and whisper into the curls of her hair as if the strands could keep secrets.

But now she lay in the bed, her arm over the spot where he would have been. She stared into the empty space where his eyes should have been. Hair curtained, fanning out behind her head and shoulders, body sprawled across the bed as if it were a crime scene.

Her eyes were dead.

She was beyond mourning.

She pushed herself up, her hair draping around her shoulders. Moonlight, perhaps bright and blinding on the outside, filtered heavily through the curtain, giving a shadow of light to the room. She shifted herself to the edge of the bed and then padded soundlessly to the bathroom. The fluorescents were harsh and blaring, but the mirror was far crueler.

She twisted her body, her hand trailing the still healing wound across her bare abdomen, her abyssal eyes following its path in the reflection. Blaming, bagged eyes shifted back to the woman in front of her.

She had grown far too reckless with her jobs in the past year since he died. Her kills becoming messier, far more brutal than they had ever been before. But ah, that seemed to just excite her employers more and that blood brought in more wolves. She would massacre and slaughter, execute and exact gore, and receive her money from terrified hands. And leave. Other than receiving the money itself and actually killing her targets, she rarely had true human interaction now. She didn't want it. Although still connected through Olympus, she had requested to receive assignments through texts. She had requested solo missions and only that. And Hera complied without a question asked.

Ausiliatrice become far more known and perhaps more terrifying than before. But it wasn't simply the violent manner she now left her targets in that made her so enthrallingly petrifying. It was how she carried herself, how she was presented; as if she had already died. As if she had reached immortality and gotten bored with it. She walked like a goddess of death among mortals and this was understood the moment she entered the room. It was her unchanging, stone cold expression.

It was her eyes. Piercing and uncaring entirely. Endlessly empty and devoid of any mortal emotion.

She had always hated her eyes, but now? Even more so.

Because he loved them. Because he cared. Because he would stare into them hours upon hours and still tell her that he loved her entirely. Because when she looked in the mirror, she didn't want to see orbs of empty blackness. She did not want to see her own abyssal, black eyes.

She want to see brown and warm, that were freckled with flints of gold when caught in the sunlight. She wanted to see the wrinkle of skin underneath them and then the familiar flash of teeth. A wide nose and dark skin, supported by a strong jaw and square face. A grinning face, a loving face. She wanted to hear his callous, choppy voice. She wanted empty promises of love again.

She shut her eyes completely, pained. A breath, deep and ragged. She then allowed her eyes to open once more, and her hand to wander from the scar and then to her neck.

She wore his necklace, his mother's ring around her neck like a guilty promise. Familiarly, her fingers trickled to the back of her neck and her nails encased the clasp of the chain. They hesitated, standing ready to release the clasp and allow the necklace, the ring to clatter against the tile floor and be forgotten. But her hand fell and her body followed.

Ausiliatrice shifted and allowed her arms to wrap around her knees as she pushed her back against the bathroom wall, the tiles sharply cold against her bare skin, _stinging_.

She was tired. Of waiting? No; this was a constant state of no escape. She had understood this even before he had died. She had grown familiar with waiting for the next tragedy of her life.

She was tired of mourning. She was tired of hurting. She was tired of taking her empty rage out on corpses. She was tired of fighting recklessly with the hope that she would be killed too.

A year later, and she was still unhealed. She doubt she would every fully recover, because did you ever truly heal from deaths? No. They followed like the sun, and eventually people's skies were full of stars.

But wasn't that a beautiful sight? A night sky alight with stars, glittering their farewells for eternity. Perhaps Mateus was in her sky after all; a constellation of their love.

Her hand, which had made its way back the ring, stalled with her thoughts and then went to her hair. She lifted a strand, inspecting it. Then watched as it fell.

She rose and moved back into their bedroom, picking up a long knife from the top of the dresser and then to window. She threw open the curtains, allowing the full shine of the moon, a much more pleasant brightness compared to the manmade lights of the bathroom.

The light covered her form and she closed her eyes, letting it wash over her. She let her body relax as if letting go of a heavy burden and allowing it tumble and fall below her.

She thought of Mateus. His smile, his voice, his eyes. He had always loved her hair.

And in one swift movement, she gathered her hair in one hand, raising it and using the knife in her other hand to slit through it as if it were a throat. She let go and it fell heavily to the ground, strands of curls now floating slowly around her as if they were wishes from dandelions.

Mateus had always loved her hair, but

it could grow back.

And so could she.

* * *

 

She stood on the roof, looking out and across the Parisian skyline.

She took a breath and closed her eyes tightly, recalling how many times she had sat with him, here in this spot, talking and murmuring, laughing and often just leaning into each other. Simply enjoying the other, without the need of words.

Ausiliatrice had always been a woman of few, after all.

(and he understood that, understood _her_ )

Another breath, and her eyes were open and she was moving again. She was moving so often now. Four years since he had died, two since she had stopped taking jobs.

Travelling to forget, or travelling to remember? She didn't know. But she needed this break. She needed to wait, just a bit longer, just a bit longer, she told herself. And maybe she could forget him. But did she want to?

(no)

And yet she continued to try, to travel. Because they had saved up enough expenses to do so for a while. And if it came down to it, she could take in a bounty quietly (she had been keeping her skill intact, after all, for it would be foolish to let herself slip up even a little).

But for now? She would wander. Because she didn't know what else to do.

She soon found herself in a small art show. Quaint. On a quiet, endearing street of small boutiques and cafes. Not many other people in the building, but that was fine with Ausiliatrice. She looked at the art with listless eyes and walked slowly around the exhibit. And then. She stopped.

She stared at the piece in front of her, abyssal eyes taking in the warm tones. Following the flowing lines of the petals, and then were drawn the dark center.

A sunflower.

But instead of it hurting her, like she had expected, that familiar numbing stab of pain, Ausiliatrice was surprised by the warm emotion welling up inside of her. She found her hand had made its way to her necklace, and she blinked, realizing the her eyes had started watering, if only a bit, if only for a moment.

A sunflower.

_Mateus_.

She turned suddenly, her still short hair swinging and bouncing around her head with her, as she realized that she was being watched. Panicked green eyes widened, and the smaller figure nearly stumbled back due to Ausiliatrice's quick movement.

"Sorry, sorry," the woman stumbled out quickly in French, "I didn't mean to startle you, really, it's just…" she looked away, her cheeks, reddening. Ausiliatrice calmed herself, berating herself for zoning out like that (making herself vulnerable), but took this time to take note of the woman in front of her.

She was much smaller and had a softer, more rounded figure. Short but incredible vibrant red hair framed her face, wavy but soft looking in texture. Bright, rounded, green eyes looked away in embarrassment as her pale was easily over taken by her blush.

"I'm sorry for staring," she repeated softly, poking her fingers together and still looking away. There was a pause, and Ausiliatrice waited, knowing that she was struggling to say something else as well.

"Vivian," the girl said suddenly, holding a hand out.

"Ausiliatrice," she answered with a nod, not taking the offer. She looked at the painting once more, before her eyes shifted back to the redhead. "The artist?"

"You noticed that?" She looked away, nervous once again and hastily retracting her hand.

"I notice a lot," Ausiliatrice stated.

"Do you… do you like it?” Vivian asked, coming to stand a bit closer to Ausiliatrice as they both looked at the painting.

"It reminds me of someone," Ausiliatrice stated.

"And… is that good?"

Ausiliatrice paused, thinking. Once again her stomach fluttered. She was warm.

"Yes." Vivian nearly glowed, letting out a nervous huff of laughter and then smiling brightly. Ausiliatrice sent her a side glance, taking note of her smile, her teeth, the curve of her lips, and the still there, but much softer blush sprinkled across her cheeks. She had freckles, Ausiliatrice saw now.

"Are these all yours?" Ausiliatrice asked, looking around the small gallery once again.

"Ah, the ones in this room, yes," Vivian said, hands going behind her back as she moved on the balls of her feet, twirling her skirt as she turned, "Mademoiselle Beatrice was very kind."

"They're all very warm." Vivian blinked, then looked up at the dark-skinned woman. Once again, it was as she was hit suddenly with a vision, the sun sprinkling through the window behind her just right, her hair curled and wild around her face, but creating an enchanting frame around the woman's face, her lips perfectly plump and pulled, cheek bones sharp, and her eyes….

She blinked suddenly, realizing that she had caught staring once again. Dark eyes looked down at her almost distrustfully. Ausiliatrice's shoulders barely turned to leave before Vivian could put her hand on one, causing Ausiliatrice to stiffen.

"Sorry," Vivian stated, stepping back lightly, but then she gathered her courage, knowing, telling herself that she had to say this, "sorry, for staring it's just… when I saw you looking at my painting, and just seeing you… well," she sputtered all while blushing heavily once again, and then drawing courage, looking up suddenly, meeting Ausiliatrice directly, looking into her eyes,

and not looking away or flinching,

"I just wanted you to know that you're very beautiful and I just wanted to paint you!" Vivian then shut her eyes tightly and turned her head, deeply embarrassed by her words. But it was the truth, and Vivian was honest and Ausiliatrice could see that clearly.

Ausiliatrice blinked down at the artist, surprised. She then turned her head slightly, looking at the painting. The sunflower. Her hand stalled it's twirling and she let go of the ring around her neck. She looked back at the woman in front of her, still a little red, but incredible honest, endearing.

"So…" Vivian asked uncertainly, only knowing a few things, and one of them being that she wanted to know this person better, this person who thought that her art was warm, "are you just visiting?"

"Travelling," Ausiliatrice corrected, still in thought. Always moving. Never staying in one place for long.

"Would… would you like to grab a drink with me? Coffee?" Ausiliatrice's eyes shifted to hers, and black eyes met vibrant green

(different than her mother's far more inviting, and hopeful, and warm, warm, warm)

"I would like that."

And Vivian smiled brightly, and glowed, and reminded Ausiliatrice so much of someone else...

She supposed she could stay in Paris for a little longer.

* * *

"Are you drawing me again?"

Green eyes widened amusingly from behind the sketchbook, propped against her legs, bent as the rest of her body was folded against the other arm rest of the couch. A light blush spread across her cheeks, and then she smiled easily. Brilliantly.

"It's just… the lighting and the angle were perfect…" Vivian mumbled, returning to her drawing and glancing up again, fixing lines and proportions. Ausiliatrice hummed, amused, her eyes returning to gaze out the large window of the apartment. It was raining, but soon, Ausiliatrice could feel, it would be cold enough to snow, to freeze over. This brought a slight frown to her face.

"Can I see?" Ausiliatrice asked, looking over at her companion. Vivian blinked, and then brightened, excitement glimmering in her green eyes. She nodded and then scooted closer, closing the gap between them and coming incredible close to Ausiliatrice.

For a second, the taller woman stiffened, feeling warmth against her body. Her breath caught in her throat momentarily due to the close sudden contact. But,

this was fine, she assured herself, forcing the sickly, hot feeling back down her throat anchoring it in her stomach. This was fine.

"I'm thinking of painting it," Vivian said, looking down at the sketch with Ausiliatrice.

"You already have a portrait of me," Ausiliatrice hummed, lips tugging lightly, seeing the skillful sketch, taking in the lines and the forms of her own body, graphed onto page, seeing her own features, her own hair, still cut short and froing around her face, each curl drawn with intent, and then, her eyes, not as dark due to pencil, but still almost wistfully looking at something unseen, beyond the boundaries of pencil on paper.

Vivian puffed her cheeks, and looked over at Ausiliatrice, shoving Ausiliatrice a bit with her shoulder ( _this was fine, this was fine_ ).

"The lion doesn't count," Vivian told her with an amused roll of eyes.

"I think it's an accurate representation," Ausiliatrice disagreed, eyes drifting to the half-finished lioness portrait, an up-close perspective of the animal's face. Vivian laughed lightly and pushed herself up.

"You're weird," Vivian stated, and then smiled again (and Ausiliatrice suddenly saw, for just one moment, the crinkle of dark skin beneath the eyes) and then she said, "but I love you for it."

Ausiliatrice froze, the words repeating in her head. _Love?_ Is this what love felt like for the second time? She watched, now idled, distant, cut off from the small studio and home around her as the redhead went around the room leisurely, putting things away and tiding her supplies.

Could she love this woman? There was certainly charm, otherwise, Ausiliatrice would have never spent this much time with Vivian. She wouldn't have stayed in Paris for this long if the artist had not drawn her in. She was bright. Passionate, about others and about her art. Her goals, her ambitions. She was kind, and loving and happy. She was a sun. Pure and radiant.

But could Ausiliatrice ever love this woman?

(after him?)

Or was she simply using her to forget Mateus? To force herself to move on? This wasn't the first time she had asked herself this. It was a reoccurrence, a motif of thought as she continued this relationship with the vibrant, sun-like artist.

(but ah, wasn't he a sun as well?)

"Ausiliatrice?" She nearly jumped, her hand lashing out to grab Vivian's wrist. Ausiliatrice blinked, and upon seeing her pained face, the loosened her grip, guilt flooding through her. Gently, she brought her other hand to encase the offended wrist.

"I'm sorry," Ausiliatrice said, rubbing circles delicately into Vivian's pale skin, "I was startled."

"It's fine," Vivian whispered back, forgiving, but still looking at Ausiliatrice curiously. There was a moment, and then Vivian leaned forward, pressing her lips against Ausiliatrice's forehead. Ausiliatrice immediately stiffened, steeling herself, clamming herself up completely. Unresponsive.

Vivian moved back, looking at Ausiliatrice through heavily lidded lashes.

"You ready to go?" she asked softly. Ausiliatrice simply nodded once, allowing the smaller woman to grab her hands and lead her out of the apartment.

This was fine, she assured herself. Because this was how relationships went.

This was fine.

* * *

Ausiliatrice braced herself against the headrest as Vivian's hand ran gently through her curls. The smaller girl was straddling Ausiliatrice and pushing her body against the taller woman's. Vivian's lips trailed messily against Ausiliatrice's collar bones,

(Ausiliatrice was breathing heavily, eyes shut tight, and remember, recalling a similar situation)

and then to her neck, her jaw,

(her skin felt  _uncomfortable_ , and sticky, and incredible hot and  _uncomfortable, uncomfortable_ )

and finally, they brushed lips-

And Ausiliatrice roughly pushed the other woman away, snapping her eyes open and moving to the edge of the bed, breathing heavily. Struggling not to panic, struggling to push her killer intent back that was rising like bile in her throat. Vivian was breathing heavily too, staring at Ausiliatrice, hurt, almost offended.

(because she didn't understand, she never could, not like he could, not like he did)

"I thought…" Vivian muttered, frowning, her eyes nearly brimming and then breaking, "I thought that we were fine, that you were- that you were… It's been two years, Ausiliatrice!" she said suddenly hitting her fists against the bed, tears falling from her eyes and pattering onto the sheets. Ausiliatrice simply stared forward, out the smaller window of the bedroom.

It was snowing, she had thought numbly, her breathing now have calmed, but her body still rigid.

Winter had finally arrived.

"I thought that you were comfortable now, that you actually loved...," Vivian continued, wiping tears away now, not understanding, not understanding, "I thought you we-"

"No," Ausiliatrice said, cutting her off, but not looking back, never looking back, "I don't…. feel that way, Vivian. And I won't apologize for it."

Because she was just this way, and there was no use trying to fit herself to someone's standards, to their wants, not when she didn't want the same.

Because Ausiliatrice wasn't the type to change who she was for some else, to force herself to feel things that she had no interest in feeling.

And Vivian realized that suddenly, looking over at the woman she had idolized for the past years, had viewed as a piece of art, and perhaps nothing beyond that. And she felt shame. And guilt. She turned, facing her back to Ausiliatrice and brought her knees up, hugging them.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, genuinely, because she truly was and had never meant to hurt the other woman.

"Yeah," Ausiliatrice said, voice hardened yet genuinely sad to see this end. But it was over, and they both knew it.

And this was fine. They both realized this. But for now?

"Me too."

Ausiliatrice would leave, because she was used to people leaving her,

and for once, she would leave for a change.

* * *

The dust settled easily as Ausiliatrice put the kick stand up and swung her leg over the bike. Leaving it, she ascended up the old steps, wood creaking uncertainly under her. She paused at the top, reviewing the aged, yet familiar porch. She walked it carefully, stooping down when she noticed dark, extremely faded marks on the floor. As if something had been dragged across the wood.

And it had, Ausiliatrice knew, and she felt as if she could still smell copper distinctly, and she knew what that dark substance was.

(Blood. Rashida's. And for a moment, it was as if Ausiliatrice was there, watching as the leopard pounced and the bullet Rashida shot missed, and his teeth encased her neck, and she could hear the snap, and smell the fresh blood, and she watched as he dragged her limp body across the porch and then leapt into the tree with his prey as if she were another antelope, another feeble animal, because there wasn't really a difference was there?)

She tore her eyes away from the trees, having almost expected to see her old companion there. Not, she went to the horizon. She moved to the railing and leaned, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply.

Listening.

And there it was, the heartbeat of the savanna, once again intertwining and falling in tune with her own.

She missed this.

She missed him.

_Them_.

But, she knew - opening her eyes and seeing the familiar sunset, beautiful and heart breaking - that it was time to move on. To leave this place once again. Because although she still fell in this place's rhythm so easily,

this was a former home to her. And not a current one.

Her hand went to her hair, which she had continued to keep short over all these years until she was ready to grow once again,

until she was ready to stop stalling herself,

until she was ready to leave him behind,

but not forgot. She didn't want to forget Mateus, or the Savanna (no matter what happened here, because that was behind her as well)

or her mother. No, she would never forget any of her homes but,

it was time to leave and search for the next one.

It was time to start searching for her father again.

* * *

Out of all the places he had expected to run into her, Superbi Squalo would have never guessed to have run into her at a coffee shop. He was surprised, shocked that he hadn't immediately notice her when she entered. And yet, he stiffened immediately and turned, ready to retrieve his attachable sword hidden beneath his coat the moment he had heard her voice.

"You've grown your hair out. I like it."

He turned, expecting a blank face and merciless eyes. But instead he saw a calm demeanor and a slight tug of lips. She was completely at ease and seemed content. He narrowed his eyes, looking at her own appearance. It had been years, but she had always been recognizable. Unforgettable.

"I see you've cut yours," he stated, almost carefully. She barely smiled, her hand going to touch her hair, now just above her shoulders.

"Yes," it was barely a hum, "I've kept it short for a while now."

There was lull in conversation as Squalo waited on edge. She only spoke again once they both had received their drinks.

"Sit with me?" she asked, surprising him. But what surprised him more is the fact that he said yes.

He had pondered why, looking at the woman across from him. Despite him being rather hostile, she remained quelled, eyes looking out the window and watching the snow daintily fall to the ground, ignoring the busy people on the street outside the small café. He didn't know whether it was due to her cheeks being slightly flushed from the cold weather, or perhaps it was just her natural skin, but it almost appeared that she was glowing. Radiant.

"I know that the Varia have been keeping track of me," she started, causing his eyes to narrow. "But," she allowed, eyes shifting over to him, nearly pinning him down, "I was pleasantly surprised that you had never contacted me."

Them keeping track of her movements, he thought to himself, had been more of a hobby for Xanxus (thinking of him sent a pang through him, and he grimaced, simply thinking of the state his boss was in at this moment). He allowed his eyes to shift to the snow as well, and the woman sitting before him seemed content, allowing him silence.

How cold was he, trapped in that ice? Did it feel as if his skin was surrounded in shards? Glistening and cutting, hurting him and scarring. Would he bleed when he came out? _If?_ No. When. Because Squalo refused to think that Xanxus would never return.

"You've been quiet for about six years now," Squalo stated simply. This had seemed strange to him, when he had realized that she had no longer been taking jobs. Killing. Massacring. She shrugged, a simple graceful movement and took a sip of her drink.

"Travelling," she stated simply. He merely grunted in response.

Bel, he recalled, had been extremely disappointed when his new obsession had quieted. He remembered easily when her style had shifted suddenly. Used to, she had been elegant in her kills. Her partner had been the brutal one, but only due to his weapons and strength. She had always maintained a certain tact, a certain beauty. But that had been haphazardly thrown and discarded. Her killings become gored and blood filled. The bodies left mutilated, nearly beyond recognition. Their youngest had been enthralled by her, and the moment Squalo let slip that he somewhat was familiar with the woman, he was pelted with questions by their resident prince. The whole ordeal had been rather annoying and Squalo could feel the start of a headache coming just thinking of it.

But the woman sitting in front of him currently? She was different. Quieted, perhaps sad, but much more at peace.

"Why didn't you pursue me?" she asked suddenly. He blinked, looking over at her curiously. He could see how she had inspired Xanxus. He had been there, after all, but their encounter, watching her performance had lit a flame in Xanxus. Squalo recalled the way his companion's eyes had lit up in fascination and bloodlust, watched the way he had gripped him guns without him even being aware.

"I want that," he had told Squalo, "that power. That strength. I want that, and I'm going to show all those fuckers that I'm strong enough. Powerful. Like her. And then I'm going to show her."

As thanks, if what went unsaid, but understood (because they always seemed to understand each other, those two).

Even now, resided and at peace, even though she had been out of the game for six whole years;

She was still very much a lioness sitting before him, regarding him curiously. Even at rest, she had the hum of power and pent fury, the capacity for it. She had inspired Squalo as well that night, sure, but Xanxus?

He had found a kindred spirit.

(Predators indeed)

"He wanted to ask you himself," Squalo said, looking out the window with her, watching as the snow grew heavier, far more aggressive and harshly whipping around the people outside. They simply watched. She hummed with vague interest at this.

"Xanxus," she said, as if testing the name on her lips, "was it?"

He wanted to show you himself, Squalo silently added, to show you how far he had grown from that day. They were just children then, after all (so young, so young, but now what were they?).

It was almost a lie, truthfully, what he had just told her. He had only wanted to ask her to join when he felt that he reached his true potential. When he felt that he was truly a lion, and could approach her proudly, and make even a lioness such as herself acknowledge his strength and raw power. And perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, respect it enough to bow down and follow.

But, more pressing matters came to light. And rage consumed his mind. And look where that landed him, Squalo thought bitterly.

(And when Squalo moved his arm (his stump) ever so slightly, in that moment his veins consisted of ice and shards, and cold, and he was in the ice, feeling what he felt, right there alongside him, suffering, suffering. If only)

And now the swordsman was waiting. And Ausiliatrice knew about waiting and easily recognized it. She had waited for so long, after all. And still was.

"You're loyal," she reviewed him suddenly, eyes inspecting, "and that kind of devotion is rare. Does he know?" she asked, titling her slightly.

Squalo could only hope. If not? He would be damn pissed.

(because he was in the ice, he was there too, _waiting, waiting, waiting_ )

She finished her cup and stood, walking to the small trashcan nearby. She looked back at him again, pausing in front of the door.

"Just so you know," she called back, her eyes fixing him in one place again. In their abyssal depths, he picked out a warning. Or perhaps, a hint of playfulness?

"I'm growing my hair out as well."

And she left.

* * *

"How interesting of you to call. It's been too long, and yet I always knew you would return. Heroes never truly leave us. What type of job would you like? It's been so long after all. A simple one?"

"I want to topple an empire."

"...Welcome back, Atalanta."

* * *

Ausiliatrice entered the facility smoothly, receiving many stares and glances. But she was used to this. Music and lights blared and blurred around her, but she was not here for the entertainment those around her were ogling at, grasping at. Instead she gently put her hand on one of the worker's shoulders, and shook her head when questioned.

She leaned over and whispered in the woman's ear. Her eyes went wide in surprise and she stood back, taking in Ausiliatrice completely. She then smiled widely and laughed, and grabbed her arms, excited words and praise tumbling out of her mouth. She quickly led Ausiliatrice through the building and then to the back room. Ausiliatrice remembered the grungy and even more aged place vaguely. The memory was warm.

She entered the other room, lifting the curtain and immediately meeting dark eyes. Not as dark as hers, but still, a small smile made its way to Ausiliatrice's face.

Mariana appeared as if she had not changed at all, her appearance untouched by the years. Her incredibly dark skin looked immaculate and she had retained the same incredibly calm demeanor. Once again, the only give away of her true age being her hands, even more wrinkled and withered than Ausiliatrice recalled as the woman cupped her face gently.

"Look at you," she breathed out, taking in Ausiliatrice's features and allowing a smile. "You look just like your mother."

The statement almost hurt, but Ausiliatrice hid it, instead removing the woman's hand from her face gently.

"So I've been told." Mariana let out a bark of laughter, falling onto the couch beside Ausiliatrice. She hummed, her hand shifting through the pockets of her robe and pulling out a cigarette and lighter.

"Don't worry," she said after the first puff of smoke had left her lips, "your old man's there too. You've got his cheekbones."

Ausiliatrice blinked. That was a first.

"But I doubt this is just a visit for old time's sake," Mariana continued, "otherwise, you'd have stopped by a long time ago. You want something."

"Information," Ausiliatrice supplied. Mariana raised an eyebrow.

"What? Your little, fancy organization can't give you what you need?"

"Olympus is efficient," Ausiliatrice explained, causally leaning back and crossing her legs, easily and elegantly. In command of the conversation, "and yet, even they cannot give me everything I need. Information on the person I'm looking for is rather tight lipped. And I find myself needing to rely on older, perhaps more efficient means."

"If that's a slide to my age, you're not helping your case," Mariana countered, and yet there was still amusement in her voice. "Finally looking for your old man, huh?"

"I thought I was before," Ausiliatrice admitted seriously, "But I was holding myself back."

"And you think you're ready now?"

Ausiliatrice didn't answer the woman, and only replied with a hardened look.

"I'm honored you're come to me for help," Mariana said, "I'm touched, genuinely. I knew your mother for a long time. But still, I'm surprised you'd want to rely on me for such important information," Mariana admitted with a casual roll of her shoulders. But Ausiliatrice had caught the glimmer of truth in her eyes, and that was all she needed to know.

"What can I say," Ausiliatrice said without wavering, "word of mouth can be far more reliant that ink on paper. And you've been around far too long not to be embedded in this trade."

The older woman blew out a stream of smoke and allowed a smirk.

"Dino Cavallone," she informed Ausiliatrice simply. "Get close to him, and Reborn will come to you."

"You're sure?" Ausiliatrice asked, already well aware of the name and frowning.

"I wouldn't lie to Esme's kid," Mariana replied truthfully, almost sadly. "I came across some information years ago…" she started suddenly, as if she had been considering this from the moment Ausiliatrice walked in.

"She just left you, didn't she?" Mariana asked, looking over at Ausiliatrice, the daughter of someone she had once considered family (that she still does). Ausiliatrice didn't even have to nod to confirm this. Mariana sighed, and then snuffed out her cigarette in a nearby bowl. She rose and moved to another part of the room, to a dresser, opening a drawer and then removing a false bottom. She carried the small file over to Ausiliatrice again, throwing it on the coffee table in front of them and leaning back, draping herself on the couch once more.

"Thirteen years ago," Mariana began, "They had her cornered and she was heavily injured. Managed to run into an abandoned building and hold her own for a bit. Then they set it on fire," she explained, watching as Ausiliatrice leaned forward tenderly to review the file, flipping through it and reviewing the reports, the pictures, the words herself. "Found her body inside, and they could confirm that it was her. Found another body too. A kid. Looked to be about eleven or twelve. They assumed it was her kid. They assumed it was you. But I had a feeling that you weren't dead. I knew it. Esme wouldn't have allowed that."

"They," Ausiliatrice murmured, looking at the picture of her mother's burnt and mutilated body, "her family," because it wasn't Ausiliatrice's family, it had never been hers and they had barely been Esmeralda's, "they didn't care about us, did they?"

"They never did," Mariana answered, watching her carefully, "those kind of people only care about their image. And when one of their brood mares runs off with a bastard child?"

The question went unanswered. Because the answer was Ausiliatrice's life.

Ausiliatrice put the file down on the table once more. She shut her eyes momentarily before opening them, and looking over at Mariana once again.

"Thank you," she said genuinely, "for telling me this."

Because this was the final shove she needed.

"Dino Cavallone, you said?" Mariana hummed in acknowledgement.

"Word is that Reborn is training him," Mariana said, "has been training him for quite some time now. That's why he hasn't made a stir in a while. Well, that," she added with a tilt of her head and a sly look, "and another reason."

"The curse?" Ausiliatrice guessed. "Tell me what it is."

"I'll let you figure that out on your own," Mariana teased, smiling lightly and then laughing when Ausiliatrice frowned. "You have her pout too!"

"But," the older woman said again, becoming more serious, "you have to understand. I've been in the game my entire life. Longer than most people. When you've done this as long as me, you get to know people. You get information. You play the game, and you figure out how to survive. I've heard things, I know things. And you will too, eventually," she ended looking over at Ausiliatrice warmly and then adding, "but you've got to figure this out for yourself. Understand?"

Ausiliatrice simply stared at her with those abyssal eyes. And then nodded.

"I've understood that my entire life."

Because she was born into this dangerous world,

her mother's daughter, her father's child,

and she was going to damned if couldn't play this game well.

* * *

Hera inclined her head lightly, her chopped hair swaying back with it as she reviewed the woman sitting in front of her.

She supposed that Ausiliatrice had been one of her crown jewels in her collection. A true assassin, a killer by heart, skill coming naturally, power in every footstep. She had been eyeing the girl long before Meleager had approached her. By her orders of course. It had been a gamble, to see if he would actually reel her in.

But Hera was a people person. She knew how to read people, how to gauge them. She saw their power the moment they walked in and she craved it for her own. Because it didn't matter if Hera wasn't powerful herself (although it would be rather unfortunate to think that she couldn't hold her own), but why kill herself for something she could find in other people. In pawns. And Ausiliatrice was the queen of her collection.

But unlike Meleager, Hera wasn't planning to build her up to be a leader. Because she was already beyond Hera helping her. She was already far beyond reach of normal people, assassins, mercenaries. Only the true elite compared to her, as if killing ran in her blood (and it did, it did, it did).

It was a shame what happened to Meleager (a true shame, really, for Hera favored him and had planned a bright future indeed), and for a while Hera feared that without him, Ausiliatrice would not return.

She remembered with excitement how Ausiliatrice had fallen into a bloodied rage, each mission becoming more brutal, the style in which she killed becoming completely and totally ruthless. A true monster that lived up to Hera's expectations. Beyond them, actually.

But then? Nothing, for years. Hera was concerned that she had finally lost the most prized of her possessions. But somehow, always, the woman had known that she would return.

And here she was now, sitting in front of Hera like a deity, actively playing into Hera's plan.

Because Hera's true intentions have always been to raise her heroes to new heights and then benefit from those positions without having to lift a finger herself. They never forget who got them their start and Hera made sure to leave a good impression.

And she wanted to leave an ever-lasting one on the predator sitting before her.

"I'll admit, Atalanta," Hera purred, lifting her glass to her lips, "I'm surprised that you're asking for a job like this. Long-term never suited you."

"Preferences change."

"I'm sure they have over a number of years." Hera's eyes barely narrowed when Ausiliatrice offered no apologies for her extreme absence. But wasn't that just like the girl? How zealous.

"You're aiming high, as well," Hera continued, "Dino Cavallone?"

"I don't settle. You know that," Ausiliatrice responded, her expression unchanging.

"Yes, you certainly don't." A ghost of a smile appeared on Hera's lips, recalling the job Ausiliatrice had wanted upon her return. An empire indeed. One of the largest and most corrupt weapons corporations had crumbled within a week. Ausiliatrice had certainly stayed in shape in her absence, that was for sure. And after that? Well, the want for Hera's most skilled mercenary and assassin rose exponentially.

"I'm anything if not generous," Hera purred.

"Are you?" And the woman smiled, beautifully, brashly, almost cruel to look at.

It was a direct threat. A vivid showing of teeth. It was this moment Hera truly missed Meleager (and she felt fear, fear, fear and rightly so); the medium between her and Ausiliatrice, who was not one to follow orders, commands, to be ruled over. And the moment that she felt that Hera was trying to do just that?

"I'll do anything in my power to aid you," Hera said truthfully, intertwining her fingers in her lap and straightening.

Because that meant keeping Ausiliatrice close, in her graces. And Hera was not letting a true diamond like her slip between her fingers.

Ausiliatrice's eyes barely narrowed, and then, a small incline of her head. Barely exposing her neck more.

A sign of acceptance.

"Well then Atalanta," Hera started smoothly with the slight sliver of a smirk, "how does body guarding sound to you?"

* * *

_"Flowers grow back, even after they are stepped on. So will I."_

**_\- Resilience_ **

 

 


	10. Her Mother Taught Her to Miss

**Lesson 10:**

**Her Mother Taught her to Miss**

* * *

 

_"I saw a man pursuing the horizon;_

_Round and round they sped._

_I was disturbed at this;_

_I accosted the man_

_'It's futile,' I said,_

_"You can never-"_

_'You lie,' he cried,_

_And ran on."_

**_-Stephen Crane_ **

* * *

 

 

"I have an associate."

Ausiliatrice's eyes snapped from landscape they passed to Hera's reflection in the window of the car.

(And for a moment, with thrill because these sort of things, dangerous people, they just thrill her don't they? For a moment, she was reminded of a basilisk's gaze redirected in the reflection; diluted to the point where it would not petrify, and yet still incredibly terrifying enough to strike fear and petrify in the metaphorical sense. But that was enough, that was enough).

"A former associate really," Hera added offhandedly, causally shifting her weight and looked away from the other woman and out her own respective window. "A retired Hero actually," Hera elaborated, fixing a minuscule mishap in her otherwise perfected make up. Instead of responding, Ausiliatrice's eyes slid back into place, observing the landscape once again. But this was a normal response.

"He has quite the influential position in the Cavallone Family," Hera continued despite this, "He was close to their former boss, and had joined many years before. He was a part of Olympus when he was much younger, before that of course, but," she said, smirking slightly, smugly, proudly, but with reason behind it, with truth to back it, "Heroes are always willing to pay tribute for what I have given them."

Because that was the reason Hera began Olympus; to put people in high places and benefit from it. To help those with potential who otherwise could not amount to it.

It was an equally beneficial relationship, Ausiliatrice could clearly see. A relationship Ausiliatrice was fully prepared to use to her advantage, to wring it out as much as she could.

And after this relationship was no longer of use to her?

(After she found Reborn, met Reborn? What would she do then, who would she be then?)

(Without Mateus?)

Ausiliatrice once again looked over at the older woman. Evaluating. Judging, weighing options.

Well then.

Ausiliatrice had always made the best of her circumstances. And just as Hera was using her, Ausiliatrice was sure to do the same.

And wasn't that just courtesy?

* * *

Romario took a breath, using the window of the large hotel room as a mirror in order to straighten his tie. His eyes flickered to the street below him, every now and then checking in hopes of seeing a familiar car perhaps, familiar head of dark blue hair, perhaps an extravagant dress decorated, detailed in a distinct peacock theme.

Hera hadn't contacted him for years. And perhaps – no, he knew this was because she had no need of him. She was happy to see him join a prestigious family, after all. That is what she wishes for all of her heroes, and hopes that they will accomplish.

And he was quite happy where he was. The right-hand man of the boss of the Cavallone. As he had been with the boss before. Romario had never been that much of a fighter, after all. No, not a warrior, Hera knew; a guide, a teacher, perhaps even a protector. And so that was what Hera had nurtured him to grow into, had helped him to be. And here he was now, years and years later. Olympus behind him and him at the side of one of the most powerful men of the underground.

He frowned, his hands releasing his now-straightened tie as he met the eyes of his own reflection.

He came here on Hera's request to make clear that this, where he was now, what he had amounted to with or without her help… the Cavallone Family came first.

His boss came first.

And he had every intention to make that known to Hera, no matter what her mysterious request was.

And as he turned at the sound of the door opening, he had this in mind, steeled

but the thought never even brushed against the smooth skin of his lips as he viewed the woman that entered first.

For a moment, he thought that is was Argus, without her coverings. But no, the woman entering was far slimmer than the incredibly buff Muslim, although looked to be about the same height. Tall, much more graceful than Hera's usual aid. But perhaps more powerful, seeing that as soon as she entered, her presence rippled through the room. Not in the brute, physical way that Argus was (although, she looked to be incredible athletic still, agile in her footsteps, even at a casual pace). Her wild hair settled on her shoulders and spilled beyond, ending about five or so inches perhaps past them. She was armed, he could tell as she walked, as the coat she was wearing moved, revealing two holsters on her hips. With bayonets, he noted. A beautiful woman, anyone would admit. Cheekbones high and sharp, large lips, drawn and plump. Her skin a brilliant darker shade. He wavered, however, glimpsing her eyes for just a moment.

But she moved to the side of the room, making way for Hera who walked in after. The woman seemed completely uninterested in Romario, but he was hyperaware of her presence, of her as she kept to the outskirts of the room. A deadly shadow on the borders of his vision. But despite him being aware of the danger she could possess, the power she extruded, he was somehow convinced (he somehow knew) that this woman posed no threat to him at the moment. Or perhaps it was that he was no threat to her?

Either way, Romario felt secure enough to give Hera his attention.

(but he was aware, attuned to the other woman in the room, for only a fool would be unaware of a lion laying nearby)

"I appreciate you meeting us here, Chiron," Hera greeted, giving a sultry smile as she draped herself onto the couch, gesturing for him to take opposite. Romario gave a taut smile as he sat.

"Chiron," he repeated, the name so familiar leaving his lips, "I haven't been called that in years."

"It never truly leaves you," Hera stated. A thinly veiled reminder, they both knew. The start of negotiations.

"Understand," Romario said, "I do appreciate what you did for me in my younger years. But I am the right-hand man of the Cavallone. Family comes first. You know this."

"Of course," Hera purred, giving a small nod of understanding, "I would expect no less. And in fact, I come with an offer that will aid the Cavallone."

Romario stiffened, hearing a small click and then feeling the soft, faint brush of wind. He angled his head slightly, seeing that the woman from before had opened the window and placed herself on the sill with elegance and poise.

"How is your boss, speaking of?" Hera drew his attention back to her, away from Ausiliatrice, "I had never had the pleasure of meeting him, after all. Shame," she hummed with a dreamy smile, "I hear he's quite the charmer." Romario allowed a chuckle.

"I'm afraid he's a little young for you," Romario warned, "He's only 21 after all, but, as you know, is doing remarkably well taking care of the family." The woman on the sill gave a soft, barely heard snort of amusement (a jab, Hera knew, at the revelation of the older woman's age), in which Hera responded with a stern, slightly put off look, but quickly regained her composure.

"A man who has your loyalty is a great one, I don't doubt," Hera said, "You've never been a fighter, after all. Chiron. A guide. A teacher. Someone who stands at the side of power."

"A place where I'm very comfortable standing, you know," Romario moved on, "I'm very happy with my position, and with the man I am under."

"What is he like?"

The older man's eyes slunk, his head turning again, from Hera's form to the shadow, the intimidating figure leisurely sitting on the open window sill. She almost looked draped, as if positioned for a painting. A portrait of beauty. One that, despite this, conveyed danger. No, he understood; potential danger. If provoked. If challenged. But he would be a fool to challenge someone like this woman.

Her hand rested, seemingly easily, causally, at her hips, on her holster, but he was experienced to know, intelligent enough to be aware of how fast predators like her could be. Ah, that's what she is, he suddenly realized, the word that perfectly conveyed everything about this woman:

a _predator_.

A warrior was far too brutal a word, but she was far worse than one. Far more cunning, far more invasive, more tactful. She had a deadly grace to her, from her movements to her appearance.

Her eyes, though.

He had seen them somewhere before.

(but they were different, weren't they? If only slightly, if only)

Perhaps, long ago? But it was only a guess, a faint grasp at a memory.

"My boss," he said, maintaining eye contact, taking in, fully, her abyssal eyes for the first time (was it though? Was it the first time he had come across eyes like that? No), "is a great man. He pulled our family through troubling times and has helped the Cavallone rise since then. Despite being so young, he has accomplished much."

Romario didn't know what to expect from this woman. He didn't know how she would take his words, his praise for his boss. But she surprised him and scoffed, almost a sneer. And she turned her head, her attention, her eyes, away from Romario and out to the cityscape.

"That's not what I meant," she said simply. Almost disappointed.

And she was done with him then.

"She's my offer, you know," Hera called his attention back to her. Romario barely raised an eyebrow in response. There was a sharp spike, and Romario felt as if, for a moment, the room itself held its breath.

"I'm nobody's to give," Ausiliatrice sharply reminded, not even looking over at them. And yet, the message was clear. Crystal.

"Of course not," Hera recovered, allowing herself to relax her body once more. Then, continued: "She's usually an assassin, you know. Top notch. Professional to the t. Atalanta, I can say with absolution is the best of Olympus."

 _Atalanta_.

With awareness of just who he was in the presence of, Romario grew even more on edge. More acutely aware of just who was sitting leisurely right behind me. This was a woman who easily topple regimes. One of the unclaimed best of the underworld. Rumored to be Varia Quality, and Romario had no doubt that she was.

"Although usually a fighter," Hera continued, "Atalanta has graciously decided to offer her services as a bodyguard. Call it a way for her to broaden her skill set."

"And why the Cavallone?" Romario questioned, "You have plenty of connections in other places." Because this was a solid fact; Hera had an extensive network. Olympus was just the center of it, former heroes being the threads that branched out and connected it all.

"Why not the Cavallone?" Hera threw back, "Why not such an impressive and extensive family? After all, someone like Atalanta would never settle for the weak. Call others unworthy if you will."

Hera leaned back, watching as Romario's mind raced. This was one of the things she loved about him. He was an intellect, a planner, similar to her. But softer, and warmer, much more so. Hera took into consideration others, sure, but it was in a far colder and more calculating way. She considered their future and how she could help them, yes, but Romario had always been warmer, more like a parent when he helped others. He did always have a soft spot for children, she recalled.

"I," Romario spoke, "will consider this." Hera barely hesitated, then smiled beautifully.

"That's all we needed," she thrummed pleasantly. Hera's eyes lurked behind Romario, meeting the eyes of Ausiliatrice. A moment, and a slight question. And then a nod from the darker skinned woman. Allowance. Permission. Acceptance. Hera smiled once more.

"I'm sure," Hera concluded, holding out her hand, "that your boss will be charmed to meet her." Romario met his former employer's eyes, almost defiantly, but amused. Willing to play this game. He lifted his hand, and then lifted hers upon contact, kissing the top of it instead of shaking it before speaking.

"And vice versa."

* * *

 

"A body guard?" Dino Cavallone asked, sending a quizzical side look to his right-hand man. "I don't know… do you really think I need one, Romario?"

"Truthfully boss, her guarding you isn't really the reason I considered it," Romario explained. Dino paused, then placed his pen down, abandoning the paper work in favor of the conversation. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk, interlocking his fingers, and then pressed his lips gently against them. Romario continued.

"Atalanta," Romario stated. "You've heard of her, I presume." Dino hummed.

"Don't know of someone who hasn't. She's made a comeback, hasn't she?" Dino recalled distinctly, hearing of this woman. His tutor even took note of her, which was slightly impressive in itself. Dino halted his thoughts, his eyes shifting almost accusingly to Romario. "An assassin as a body guard?"

"I wasn't thinking of having her as a body guard, per say," Romario explained, "but rather, having her for intimidation." Dino raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"With the absence of Reborn" – Dino nearly winced at this, being reminded of his tutor that left merely days ago – "I feel that you need someone similar to instill, well, not fear really, but rather to have a great influence backing you." Dino sighed, frowning.

"You think I'm not intimidating enough when I need to be," he flatly accused, a slightly sad tone to his voice. Romario's expression turned apologetic.

"I believe that you'll learn to be in time, boss," he said reassuringly, in a softer tone (his boss looked, Romario noted, almost like he was pouting. Romario was once again reminded of how young he was), "but I was concerned that there would be a gap after Reborn left." Dino hummed, lifting a hand to scratch his chin.

"I see your point," he said with a sigh, "I guess there would be an adjustment period after Reborn, right? I still expect him to jump out and reprimand me for not doing something right," he said with a chuckle. But that faded and then his expression morphed to a thoughtful one.

"You said that she's from your old employers, right?" Dino asked, looked over at Romario. He nodded in return.

"Olympus, yes."

"I thought she was unaffiliated, though?"

"Olympus isn't exactly a family," Romario explained crossing his arms, and then putting a hand on his chin as he formed his explanation, "it's more of an agency. Heroes may do favors yes, but jobs and missions just run through Olympus. Heroes can leave anytime, really, but Hera… she gives opportunities that people wouldn't be able to find on their own, if that helps."

"This Hera…. is there an ulterior motive to this?" Dino considered.

"Other than Hera trying to get Atalanta to join an influential family?" Romario offered, "I honestly can't see one, boss. If Atalanta had a mission to kill you, then you would already be dead," Romario explained with a serious expression. He blinked, then looked over, noticing Dino's stricken and pale face.

"Geez, Romario!" Dino reprimanded, blanching and even looking around the office as if as assassin would pop out in that moment, "you can't just say stuff like that!" Romario blinked again, then laughed at his boss's reaction, even clapping him on the back.

"Don't worry, boss," he said, grinning, "If you're that worried, then maybe we should just get her to guard you!" Dino grumbled, but was teasing in the way that he shooed Romario away.

Dino humbled, however, and considered his options. For a moment, his mind flickered to his tutor. What would Reborn say?

_"Stupid pipsqueak. A good boss would never turn down an offer to make such a powerful ally."_

Dino almost winced, easily imagining the pain of the kick to the head he would receive before such a statement. He straightened, running a hand through his hair.

"Well," He said, shrugging, "I guess I should meet my new body guard first, huh?"

* * *

Disappointed certainly did not cover how Ausiliatrice felt when she saw that her father was not with the boss of the Cavallone when she first met him.

But then again, Ausiliatrice couldn't exactly pin point how she felt about the possibility of meeting him in the first place. It was the feeling of watching a child tear the wings off a butterfly; witnessing this horrendous act and feeling incredibly distant from the act of violence derived from such innocence. An ample metaphor, and yet it still didn't give her the exact adjective in which to describe this feeling. Ausiliatrice enjoyed quick and efficient words. And this feeling gave her none of those.

Honestly, she was rather unimpressed with Dino Cavallone. Perhaps it was his attire: cargo pants and sneakers topped with a printed shirt and a green and black jacket overlapping. Not quite the attire she expected a mafia boss to present himself in. But she supposed he was young (about four years younger than her, she remembered. Did that make her young as well?).

He presented his hand and a lopsided grin.

"Atalanta, right? Dino Cavallone," he introduced, nodding his head bit. She glanced down, still unimpressed, at his hand and did not take it. Romario coughed into his hand behind her, obviously trying to cover his laughter.

"Pleasure," she replied curtly, her expression unchanging.

"Right…" Dino trailed off, taking his offered hand and retracting it, choosing instead to run hand through his blond mop of hair.

Atalanta terrified him. More than he would logically expect.

He had met beautiful women before, sure, but she was stunning. And she was clearly powerful; simply everything about her expressed this. How she walked, how she held herself, he could list things perhaps all day. But these factors were not what nearly unsettled him. No, it was her eyes.

(It was always the eyes, wasn't it?)

Black and abyssal. Familiar. Why were they familiar?

Just looking at her eyes struck such an absolute and terribly familiar sense of foreboding in him that he wondered if he could handle her being around him for such an extended period of time.

(No, he reminded himself, he was a mafia boss, and more importantly, a  _motherfucking adult_ ; he could handle one woman with incredible piercing eyes. No matter how much of a chill they sent down his spine)

She started walking forward suddenly, entering the doors of the mansion that two of his subordinates were holding open.

"Hey, wait up!" he called, running a bit, and then falling into step with her long strides. "I can show you around if you want," he offered looking over at her, and nearly shrinking back when she glanced over.

"I can find my own way," she assured him. He chuckled, and shook his head.

"Really, it's no problem, honestly," he managed. Her lip barely twitched. She had hoped that venturing further into the mansion, that maybe, perhaps, she would see him. But after taking up the don's offer (something that had made him grin again, lopsided), and then later realizing that her father wasn't in the mansion, and then later being informed that he actually left just days prior to her arrival,

Ausiliatrice very suddenly felt the urge to shoot something.

"Do you have a shooting range?" she asked suddenly. Her self-appointed tour guide carefully answered, seeing her hand twitched, incredibly close to one of the halters at her hip. He paled, and he congratulated himself on doing so only slightly.

"Right this way."

 


	11. Her Mother Taught Her to Love Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have my mother's mouth and my father's eyes; on my face they are still together."

**Lesson 11:**

**Her Mother Taught Her To Love Part 2**

* * *

 All quotes used in this chapter are by Warsan Shire

* * *

  _"give your daughters difficult names, give your daughters names that command the full use of tongue. my name makes you want to tell me the truth. my name doesn't allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right."_

* * *

 Aged, wrinkled hands (calloused, not soft, not like a woman's hand should be) carefully overturned the smaller hand, soft hand, bared hand of a child. The elderly woman's curt fingernails lightly scraped against the vulnerable skin of the palm; lighter skin than the other side. The child squirmed. The grandmother ignored this, fingernails now tracing the young folds of the open palm, yet to be deepened by years and years.

"Love your dark skin, Esmeralda," her grandmother stated, voice accented, voice aged, foreign, not like the many other voices Esmeralda was so used to hearing (but she loved it because of this, her grandmother's foreign voice, foreign tongue), "for it is your mother's skin. It is my skin, and my mother's before mine. Know," her grandmother said, looking up and meeting the bright, green (green, green, green) eyes of her granddaughter, "that it is beautiful."

The grandmother gently encased the younger's hands with her own; wrinkled skin pressed against new. Generation reaching for generation and melding skin. Her grandmother was darker, as was her mother. But Esmeralda didn't mind.

She was the darkest out of her brothers, and she liked it that way.

But, she was told she looked like her mother,

and she didn't know what to think about that.

* * *

  _"You find the black tube inside her beauty case where she keeps your father's old prison letters. You desperately want to look like her. You look nothing like your mother. You look everything like your mother. Film star beauty. How to wear your mother's lipstick. You go to the bathroom to apply your mother's lipstick. Somewhere no one can find you._

_You must wear it like she wears disappointment on her face. Your mother is a woman and women like her cannot be contained. Mother dearest, let me inherit the earth. Teach me how to make him beg. Let me make up for the years he made you wait. Did he bend your reflection? Did he make you forget your own name? Did he convince you he was a god? Did you get on your knees daily? Do his eyes close like doors? Are you a slave to the back of his hand?_

_Am I talking about your husband or your father?"_

* * *

Once, she had looked through her mother's things.

While her father was out and her brothers in lessons (because girls didn't need to be taught the same things, her father told her. And she would spit on his shoe and he would hit her, back of hand to her cheek), she snuck into their room –

Or was it just his now that she was dead?

She snuck into their room and went to her vanity; top cleaned and dust resting. Unused for years. For as long as Esmeralda had been alive. Carefully, she opened the drawers.

She placed the rings on her own fingers, the rings too large of course, and her fingers too small. She noosed the necklaces around her throat. She pulled up a chair and leaned close to the mirror,

she imagined how her mother would put lipstick on, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, concentrated and she leaned as close as she possibly could to her own reflection. Carefully, smearing the colored wax in a controlled line. One single swoop on the bottom, and carefully angling on top. Redefining and then sharpening her cupid's bow.

Esmeralda stared at her own reflection; her lips shakily outlined in alarming red, the wrong tone for her skin tone, one arch significantly larger than the other.

She looked nothing like her mother.

But she didn't think that she wanted to.

* * *

  _"It's not my responsibility to be beautiful. I'm not alive for that purpose. My existence is not about how desirable you find me."_

* * *

She kissed her first girl when she was thirteen and was promptly hurt after; her eldest brother had grabbed her hair, took a strong hold of her scalp and threw her into the ground. The other girl screamed and ran, but Esmeralda was glad.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?" he hissed and kicked her roughly in the stomach. She doubled further and grabbed her knees, holding them to her tighter. "The fuck would happen if someone important saw you, fucking dyke!"

But someone important was always watching. Esmeralda knew this. But that was why she did it.

"Just don't fucking do it again," he snapped, spitting at her and turning (as his father taught him, to leave women weak, leave them bleeding, leave them dying).

(Leave them dead)

And as Esmeralda pushed herself up, she pulled her lower lip into her mouth and tasted blood,

and with a guttural shriek she ran at her brother and lunged.

* * *

  _"I find a girl the height of a small wail_

_living in our spare room. She looks the way I did when I was fifteen_

_full of pulp and pepper._

_she spends all day up in the room_

_measuring her thighs._

_Her body is one long sigh._

_You notice her in the hallway._

_Later that night while we lay beside one another_

_listening to her throw up in our bathroom,_

_you tell me you want to save her._

_Of course you do;_

_This is what she does best:_

_makes you sick with the need to help."_

* * *

 She roughly pushed the smaller girl down, sending her tumbling down the two steps leading to the back entrance of the kitchen. Harsh green (vivid) eyes glared down, meeting wide and scared brown ones.

She tossed the already half eaten loaf of bread, stale and days old, onto the dirt next to the girl.

Esmeralda could count the girl's ribs easily, her midriff showing due to her scrap of shirt. Her pants were in no better shape, one leg torn just at mid-thigh and the other only going a bit past the knee; no good for the upcoming season. The girl's face was dirty, her hands muddied and scraped, skin of her finger nails picked at. Her dark mop of hair an unkept mess, jaggedly cut.

But Esmeralda did not feel pity, for that faded at the back of her father's hand long ago.

(But she felt wrath, she felt fury, she felt flames white and hot, hearthed below her stomach; her strength was in her womanhood, where her late grandmother had taught her to keep it, to cherish it)

"You're fucking lucky I was the one who caught you," Esmeralda clipped, turning with one hand on the door. Ready to close, but leaving it open for now. "If it wasn't me, you'd be dead, bitch."

The girl simply stared at Esmeralda's figure, much healthier, voluptuous even, with prominent breasts and hips and an ass even at the young age of fifteen. And the girl simply stared at Esmeralda, light filtering through the open door, and cascading, shadowing Esmeralda's features and making them holy.

"Don't fucking come back."

Ah, but Rashida was never good at keeping promises.

* * *

  _"We have the same lips,_

_she and I, the kind men think about when they are with their wives._

_She is starving._

_You look straight at me when she tells us_

_how her father likes to punch girls_

_in the face._

_I can hear you in our spare room with her._

_What is she hungry for?_

_What can you fill her up with?_

_What can you do, that you would not do for me?_

_I count my ribs before I go to sleep."_

* * *

 Mariana simply sighed when she walked into the back room, stopping to jut her hip and put fingers gently to her forehead in exasperation. Esmeralda simply remained, draped across the couch and fanning herself with the many paper bills she was holding.

"At least you could give me a heads up," Mariana said, tiredly accepting the situation and hardly elbowing Esmeralda's legs in order to give herself a seat on the couch, "or at least give me my due cut."

"I needed information," Esmeralda murmured, green eyes focused on the wall opposite of her. Thinking.

"And you couldn't find another way?" Mariana murmured, cigarette in her mouth and finger flicking the lighter. She offered Esmeralda the pack, but the younger woman didn't take it. Mariana's dark eyes narrowed.

"What are you planning…?" she asked, eyeing the other woman carefully. A pause, and then Esmeralda sneered.

"I fucking hate the way he looks at me," she snapped, hand closing and crinkling the bills. Her betrothed. Her promised. Her father's newest and final way to keep her on a leash. "Like a fucking piece of meat."

Mariana stayed quiet, already knowing this. Unsurprised.

"Men will be men," the older woman said calmly.

"Men should be fucking respectful," Esmeralda spat, sitting up abruptly, "or should at least treat us like humans for Christ's sake!"

Mariana calmly blew out a stream of smoke, watching loftily as it unfurled and dissipated into the air.

"There's no controlling that, 'hun," Mariana said finally, then repeated, "men will be men. And woman will be strong. Because we have to."

To live. To survive. To make new generations should they choose. To continue.

Esmeralda knew this. But it didn't equate to acceptance.

"And I have standards," Esmeralda said, rising and walking to leave without a goodbye. Mariana didn't turn to watch her leave; she had seen Esmeralda's back too many times to be concerned. She did however hum in amusement, dropping her cigarette and putting it out with her heel as she leaned over,

taking the money that Esmeralda had left for her.

* * *

  _"To my daughter I will say_

_'when the men come, set yourself on fire'."_

* * *

 "So what's your real name, huh?" she asked him, hand caressing his face, his arm slung around her waist, fingers daintily tracing a pattern on her back. Abyssal eyes slowing drifted from her lips to her eyes, green clashing with black. He smirked; a smooth, fluid and practiced movement.

His hand shifted, moving from her waist, under her arm and above the covers their naked and bared bodies were plastered again. His fingers went to the wild curls in her hair, stroking them and then intertwining.

"Why the curiosity?" he questioned, eyes drifting to her hair instead of her curious, but vivid, vibrant, always fiery gaze.

"Fuck that," she dismissed, her curiosity dropping and aggression replacing it, "this is the tenth time we've fucked," she told him, and then grew wiser, sultry, and moved towards him, pushing herself up and then placing her knees and arms on either side of him. Above him now, she continued, leaning closer until her bare breasts were resting on his chest and her lips at his ear, skin barely touching skin.

"Besides," she murmured into his ear, so soft that even the empty room could not listen, "I want to call out your actual name, and I'm sure you want to hear me scream it."

A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, then: hesitation. Esmeralda blinked and their positions were switched. The hitman was above her, in the place of power. But Esmeralda simply smirked and laid herself out before him, knowing that this man would do nothing but cherish her.

She was confident; but wasn't that what had drawn him to her?

But with his next words, her smirk dropped and her expression was kin to mild surprise.

"Esmeralda," he said, suddenly seriously, "if I do this… I'm serious about my relationships. You know this."

Her mouth parted slightly as she stared up at him and her hand reached out. Her dark skin stood out against his pale, and she traced her thumb under his abyssal (beautiful, beautiful) eyes and then trailed her fingers along his defined cheekbones, her thumb brushing again against his lips.

His hand gently caught and encased hers, but with enough lack to send a message:

she could leave anytime. They both knew this.

But she had something that she needed to finish (to escape).

(She had standards, after all)

"I love you," she stated suddenly, the words spurting out of her mouth, even surprising herself. He blinked, amid curiosity, fascination with this woman, this fierce and fiery woman who had lured him and chased and had played this little game (and won and won and _won_ ), and was now sprawled out before him in worship (and he worshiped back).

And he leaned forward, pressing his lips softly to her ear and whispered the word she had asked to hear,

and they kissed.

* * *

  _"When We Last Saw Your Father_

_He was sitting in the hospital parking lot_

_in a borrowed car, counting the windows_

_of the building, guessing which one_

_was glowing with his mistake."_

* * *

Esmeralda hesitated, and then put a gentle hand resting on her abdomen. She sat, legs folded on top of the old, worn table. A pregnancy test lay at her side, the dim moonlight filtering to the window of the rundown apartment (her current safe house, away from the men she both hated and loved), just enough light to distinguish as positive. Esmeralda looked down at her stomach, an unfamiliar feeling churning. Embers in her hearth gathered. And waited.

"You're my way out," she whispered to her stomach, expression blank and eyes brimming with unfamiliarity.

"You're my freedom."

_"The nail technician pushed my cuticles back ... turns my hand over, stretches the skin on my palm and says, 'I see your daughters and their daughters.' That night in a dream, the first girl emerges from a slit in my stomach. The scar heals into a smile. The man I love pulls the stitches out with his fingernails. We leave black sutures curling on the side of the bath._

_I wake as the second girl crawls headfirst up my throat, a flower blossoming out of the hole in my face."_

She had her father's eyes,

and dark, black baby hairs scalped to her head. Darker skin than his, close to Esmeralda's, but lighter still.

She had her father's eyes. Abyssal and void. Recognizable.

Esmeralda held her daughter for the first time, born in a place that could barely be labeled as a hospital.

Ausiliatrice did not cry for very long,

(she had her father's eyes)

but Esmeralda did.

* * *

  _"I have my mother's mouth and my father's eyes; on my face they are still together."_


	12. Her Mother Taught Her to Shoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was wholesomely unimpressed with Dino Cavallone, but there was always room for improvement.

**Lesson 12:**

**Her Mother Taught Her to Shoot**

* * *

  _"It's good you're happy," she said. She said the word happy as if she were looking at it from a great distance through a telescope."_

**_-Richard Brautigan, The Abortion_ **

* * *

"I knew you were good," Dino said while leaning forward slightly, his headphones already around his neck as he viewed the targets, pristine holes displaying perfect kill shots, "but actually seeing it is another thing entirely."

She slid her own headphones to her neck, barely allowing her eyes to glance over at him.

"I don't shoot much myself, you know," and she did know and he probably knew this, but continued either way (something he tended to do, she noticed. She was noticing so much about him now, probing, evaluating), "since I use my whip to fight."

She made a sharp inclination of her head. Polite acknowledgment.

He was trying to get to know her. To become personable. Which she expected to some extent, gauging his personality easily enough from the short time they had spent together.

His posture was as causal as his smile, as his clothes, as his personality; he exuberated nonchalance. There was a peculiar confidence with Dino Cavallone. His brown eyes were kind enough, but she found them too prying for her liking. He was personable, and Ausiliatrice found herself…. perhaps uncomfortable wasn't the correct word. Attacked too aggressive and assaulted even more so. She was used to be scrutinized, to being judged, so that was out of the question.

She pursed her lips and barely narrowed her eyes, a sudden spurt of annoyance hitting her; and she easily tossed her freshly reloaded gun to an unexpected Dino. He reeled back, fumbling with the weapon and she stepped to the side, crossing her arms.

"Let's see," she said simply, pinning him down with a blank stare. He blinked, almost doe-like, and glanced down at his occupied hands. A nervous smile, a shifting of feet, and once their headphones were placed safely, pressing softly against their ears, he raised the gun.

Three shots.

And he turned to her with a nervous grin, a faulty excuse for incompetence on the skin of his lips. But Ausiliatrice did not return the pleasantry.

She was wholesomely unimpressed with Dino Cavallone.

But there was always room for improvement.

* * *

She remained terrifying to him, and he found himself wondering if she was even human (he swears, he had not seen her eat once since she had arrived, nor does he think that she has performed any other human function; he's only somewhat positive she breathes air by seeing the light rise and fall of her chest and the bare flare of her nostrils, and even then, that was barely noticeable). But despite this terror, there was a beauty to her, wasn't there? A mystery (and isn't that was makes things beautiful? The attraction to the void and unknown).

She was quiet and remained silent a majority of the time, even with his slight prying and continuous trying. He wanted to know more about her, especially considering that her job meant that they were in close contact for long periods of time. And Dino had no plans to spend that time in silence.

He wanted to know her, to unravel this mystery, to be introduced and be acquainted, despite this terror. He was getting used to that feeling, after all.

(He had gotten used to someone else, similarly terrifying, hadn't he?)

And Dino would consider it an accomplishment if he managed to hold even a full conversation with the mysterious woman. But first, step one, was to allow her comfort. The last thing he wanted to do was force her, and he hardly doubted that she would even let him do so, even accidentally.

And so he began watching her, only poking lightly at her cold exterior (was it cold though? Standoffish, sure, but she was not at all off-putting. She simply carried a strong, heavy sense of power that lesser men could not bear the weight of; but the Cavallone boss was no lesser man, but perhaps, not yet to her level, and perhaps, never would be. (they were not the same, after all, but this was fine, this was fine).

(He was no predator, and they knew this)

He noticed things, about her.

She had, he realized, an accent. But not just one, no. With each vowel, each pronunciation, it seemed to carry a different nationality. As if she didn't grow up listening to one voice, but to many. But this change was not jagged and these variations flowed fluidly, beautifully, and melded together to form the lullaby that was her voice.

It was an accent barely noticed and only by native speakers primarily, but it was there, and it was present.

As always, when he spoke to her, when he asked about her, her lips would purse slightly, and her eyes would narrow, if barely.

"I traveled," she answered his curiosity simply, "as a child."

And that was all she gave on the subject.

But Dino was beginning to learn that she was just like that.

* * *

Her first degree of impressiveness she viewed from Dino Cavallone was when she had first observed him pertaining to her definition of power.

She leaned against the wall, standing to his left. Chiron – ah, no, she swiftly corrected herself – Romario on his right, and she witnessed this negotiation – no, she witnessed Dino with an aggressive attentiveness; she had never seen the man like this before.

He was tilted forward with grace, his elbows leaning on the desk and lips pressed gently against his interlocked fingers, which in honesty was a normal enough form for him to take. But his aura, his demeanor, his _eyes_ , they were different. Acutely so. And she watched with tender fascination as his voice became cutting, slicing with facts, statistics and numbers, taking down the weak proposals his opponents were offering.

And the two Chinese men hesitated, then turned to each other with hushed tones, speaking in their own language –

insulting Dino, Ausiliatrice understood, picking up on the dialect immediately and somewhat fluent in the language herself

– and she found her lips tug downwards slightly, and her eyebrows furrow, just barely, having understood this. Cowards, she defined, talking in blind whispers to Dino's ears and not having the audacity to insult the man to his face. For she knew that Dino had no grasp of this language, and yet his expression did not betray this; he simply waited, patiently, confident, confident, for the men to either take the carefully constructed offer or to cut off negotiations immediately.

But the way Dino had set it up, stilted in his, no the  _Cavallone's_  favor, while the opposing side was blindly offered only somewhat valuable assets,

(but Dino wins, and does so easily, Ausiliatrice immediately caught on, he had been ahead before the game even started)

they had in their feeble minds that they were winning just enough to take the deal.

And for the first time since meeting him, Ausiliatrice found herself looking at the boss of Cavallone with respect for his tact. And she found herself reviewing, how Dino had been struggling to become acquainted with her, and now with her seeing this side that she found herself in slight awe of, then perhaps she could allow herself to become acquainted with this man.

It wouldn't hurt, she decided, to try to get to know the man who trained under her father.

(And she might as well, while she waited, while she waited, waited and waited).

And so, she congratulated him:

"They were talking shit," she said simply, after the men had shut the door behind them. He did a double take, and then stared, quite blatantly at her.

"What?" he asked, and she frowned, seeing that his earlier swagger had depleted the moment negotiations ended. And seeing this, she allowed herself to frown slightly (unknowingly stunning Dino further, being perhaps the second display of emotion he had seen from her yet), and she hummed lowly and walked away.

Ah, well, she considered, it was fun while it lasted.

(Perhaps he wasn't a predator; but not all animals needed to be. And if they were?)

(what a bloody world it would be)

* * *

The horse was unnerved by her, but Dino was quick to comfort it; stroking its snout softly and sweetly muttering to it. Ausiliatrice herself, understanding her own intimidation well, stood near the entrance of the stables, arms crossed and leaning causally.

"Your tutor," she started boldly, "what was he like?"

Dino looked over at her curiously, and then; a brilliant smile, chuckling slightly and shaking his head.

"Reborn, huh?" he started, and Ausiliatrice's heart seized for a moment. It was liberating almost, hearing someone else say his name. It was a confirmation that her father was not a vision, not a dream. The verbal confirmation of another voice uttering his name made her finding him feel tangible.

"God," he breathed out, paling slightly, "he's terrifying, you know? Super strong, confident, intimidating. One of the world's best, and he'll remind you of it. Constantly," Dino laughed, moving to saddle his steed, as he carried the conversation.

She frowned; the words coming from Dino only an echo of what others had told her, of what she had scrounged herself. But then, he continued:

"He kind of raised me, you know," the man said softly, slowing as he ran a hand long the smooth leather, "he came to train me after my father… yeah, well, he trained me, and basically, he taught me everything I know about being a good boss, and he went beyond that too. And I still have to improve, right? Because if I remember one thing he taught me, it's that I can always get better….I kind of miss him, actually." A serene moment, and then Dino chuckled again, a bit sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head as if nurturing an unseen bruise, "God, he would kick me for getting all sappy."

He finished prepping, placed a foot, and then swung his body, calming his horse before steering it towards her.

"Want to come?" he asked, offering a hand. There was hesitation, the woman in deep, echoing thought, before her eyes slunk up to meet his.

"No."

"Ah, never ridden before?" Her glare hardened. Dino laughed, holding a hand up in surrender. "Fine, fine, but if you change your mind," he said, snapping the reins lightly, "I'll be around!"

She turned her head, watching as he galloped off, the men nearby waving and chuckling and yelling after him. And she soon followed, keeping an eye on him as he trotted the estate, despite his men being around and Dino always being in sight, because it was her job to follow him now, wasn't it? To keep him in sight, and to adhere to her definition of safety. And she realized suddenly, watching as he almost exhibits the same elegance as he does when negotiating while in control of the proud animal; she realized that she was distracting herself. She titled her head, and her lips parted slightly, her eyebrows drawn in mute distress of the situation, her hand tracing over her hip and to where it was above her gut, and she clutched it;

Was this pain, she was feeling?

Jealousy?

_"He kind of raised me, you know"_

And those words echoed uncomfortably in the recess of her mind and Ausiliatrice mulled over them, upset with the complicity those words brought.

What was the extent of their relationship? Just how close were her father and this stranger? Although, her father was a stranger too, even more so than Dino was to her at this point. Again, she questioned her want, her need to find her father. But what meaning to her life was there if she gave up on this mission?

She had skill, she had power, she had everything well within reach.

But she had _nothing_ , all at once. A void at her finger tips, but what was a void without someone to share it with? Who was she to fill this void with, to makes stars and constellations with if not for her last remaining flesh and blood?

(if not with Mateus, who was already a firmly placed constellation, the only bright lights in her otherwise empty void because her mother was no star, she was hot flames and embers, resting and churning within Ausiliatrice's pelvis; because her mother was not part of this void but a part of Ausiliatrice, because blood is not easily drained dry from flesh)

Did she hate Dino for having this relationship, one that the child in her had imagined her entire life? Did she feel resentment for this man who knew her father personally when she had yet to even see the man who cursed her with his genes, his features, his eyes?

No.

Because she can only hate Dino for this when she had her own relationship with her father to compare; she can only hate Dino after knowing whether or not her father would accept her for what she is, determine if she was good enough to lay claim to his blood.

Until then?

(it was a curse, to be good at waiting)

* * *

"They respect him," Ausiliatrice murmured, low enough to where it was drowned by the exuberant sounds of those around them, but low enough to where the man beside her could hear.

"Do you?" Romario asked, nursing his own drink while waiting for the woman to answer.

"At times," she answered truthfully, "He's strange." Romario huffed.

"Tell me about it," he said with lingering amusement, watching as Dino sighed, leaning back dramatically with defeat while playing his defeated hand across the table before him. The men around him cheered, others whopping and yelling and taunting, noticing the defeat of their boss (a defeat, Ausiliatrice knew, that was handed to them generously, their boss too good with numbers not to win such a simple game. The emperor wears no clothes, indeed, indeed). The family was happy.

Romario and Ausiliatrice stood to the side of the room, separated but not distinctly so. The two were entranced in their own comradeship, as they had revolved around the other since the woman's arrival.

Once a hero, after all, and this was their tether.

Ausiliatrice found herself almost enjoying the man's quaint companionship, or at least, he was not bothersome to her. Mariana, she realized, was who he reminded her of. And this familiarity amused her and here they were now, standing in close proximity and murmuring softly to their drinks, almost casting the illusion that the two weren't even engaging in conversation.

A relationship that Ausiliatrice could allow.

And perhaps it was for droll amusement, perhaps it was because of the previous statement, because the familiarity, of perhaps she was just tired (tired, tired, tired, and bored because she was always the one who waits),

or maybe it was the slight buzz of alcohol,

but she opened her mouth and spoke the truth to the man.

And he looked over at her, repressed surprise and curiosity,

and a strong and instant understanding, because 'ah, now it all made sense', and he could hardly believe he had not connected it before because it's  _the eyes, the eyes, always the eyes._

"Does Boss know?" She sent him a look, and he nodded apologetically. "Of course not, excuse my haste." A moment passed, comfortably with Ausiliatrice, and tangibly with Romario. He spoke again:

"How long have you been searching?"

"… wrong question," she muttered, her eyes drifting back to Dino, watching him once again interacting with his men.

(and there was a sudden pain, in her chest she pinpointed, seeing them act this way, comfortable, a family. And she was a lioness again, on the savanna then, on the savanna now, a predator always)

And although Romario was put off, he continued as if his question had been answered, having become familiar with the woman's strange way of speaking in her time here.

"And I suppose you came here to try to meet him?" She didn't have to answer to confirm; it was too obvious of a question for her to even acknowledge. Romario's mind raced, considering, thinking, still in awe of this realization and berating himself for not realizing it sooner, and also feeling the strong need to help –

and he quickly decided to not tell her of the phone call Dino just received, contents of which entailing he was instructed to visit Japan; no, not just yet, he didn't want to tell her this now when she had just revealed this to him, and shatter this already delicate moment with such a revelation

– because from her short answers, from him gauging her personality, he deduced that the woman standing beside him (Reborn's daughter, of all people, that man's daughter) would appreciate discretion, and wanted this meeting to occur naturally (and he questioned, briefly wondered, what her standing on fate was if it had taken this long), and instead strove to conclude this conversation with one last inquiry:

"May I ask you something? What will you do when you meet him?"

And she couldn't fathom an answer.

* * *

  _"The sun has grown so very, very old. How long, cold, fading death? How long?"_

**_-Welcome to Night Vale_ **


End file.
